Ceiling Texture
Snow-capped peaks stretch long shadows,
cropping the corners of lamp-lit valleys,
Stage to child-like haunts
and witness to forsaken cries;
They speak, as dreams, do
to the hidden, protected soul,
uncovering horrors unsecured
and fears realized, in solitude,
Dripping omniscient truth
frozen by day, light's serf,
but, in the master's absence,
rouses the ritual witch-dance,
which tickles my guilt,
boils my stew thoughts,
allowing demons to be affectionate.
Into myself, I welcome the dance.
Snow-capped peaks dim into shadows
as my lamp-lit nightmare ends
forsaken sobs are still like dreams
sleep cannot kill child-like haunts
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