Sleepless in Whereis Part 1

Written by: Terry O'Leary

I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis, passing chambers of an Heiress (though no need to feel embarrassed) through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless. A glimpse down naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex- poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics carving symbols, round and runic, in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness. In misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues – patchwork paths consume my shoes (chasing foggy curlicues twisting, twirling by in twos, floating anywhere they choose), forming smoky retinues to the footprints that confuse of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering. Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew, shifting Shadows I pursue (wearing faces I once knew), faint and fading from my view midst the treasures in review – lost! no stars to guide me through Awful Towered residues in the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering. Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension, caught in twilight’s intervention – still unlit (in stark dissension), therefore seething with a tension, in the quiet apprehension of the Watchman’s inattention to the night-time’s bold pretension to her power, not to mention, to her hyperspace extension (far beyond my comprehension of the sundown’s black dimension) – On exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness. Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles, me, a simple abject vassal, trailing moonlit floating castles, – fickle feet, but fingers facile grasp at straws and dangling tassels – as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness. I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things, neath a sky alive with wings of a Nightingale that sings, midst the whispered murmurings soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings pacing palaces in rings, while their hapless footfall clings to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splattered castled ruins. Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries, (while the wind beside me scurries, and a hermit Ermine hurries) lurk my sleepy woes and worries (glowing faint’ but growing blurry) which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2