THe STuFF oF dReAMs

And somewhere beneath,
the pebbles rise to boulders in
the blue valley
swollen, engorged, supping at
green
which slithers far like river
snakes, cutching fistfuls of a
nights lost dream

and, somewhere beneath
again, where blood red skies
have stolen light
the ravens, dipped a satan
black, rise and caw on razor
wing
devouring squeaks of half
dead songs
smiling whispers from a
chainsaw grin

beneath, below and lower still,
a shadow trembles, begs to
pass
pleads with boulders not to
fall
begs the ravens not to laugh
and, supplicant
it offers things, makes
bargain with the black crow
wing
one soul, a heart, one hundred
years
one river of a lifetime's tears

whilst angels up above all cry,
banned entry by a blood red
sky, and dreamscapes
shocked, all fall away, no yarn
to spin the dream of day

and lower still, the shadow
sinks
to snakes to green to carrion
sin, while blood red laughs
and drips a pink on shadows
caught in nightmare's ink

and so did morning ever
come? to save a wretch with
dawn's soft love, or did the
light recoil to find the
remnants of a broken mind?

for who can tell which might
escape, which lights or darks
dictate a fate, or who
beneath an eye closed tight
wanders in blue valley's
endless night

Marion Price(2020)

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