I remember all my houses.
I relive all my homes.
I conjure, cottage conscious,
my dreamscape flickering poems.
I easily abide the dream doctrine.
I rub grainy textures,
the memory of my earliest cabin.
I summon my first adventures.
I begin impetuous, scribbling every wall.
I explore sensation with little heed.
My dwelling becomes a stew of scrawl.
My touching tapping tests often bleed.
Later, I occupy the Winchester Mansion.
Edifice under construction, I feel safe here
until I find my wraiths doing the expansion.
Their treacherous handiwork stokes my fear.
My being so unsettled, so unstable, I must flee.
Adrift on the River Styx, I espy a twinkling domain.
“Love Ranch” reads the neon sign beckoning me.
Will this love sate a soul? Is it sacred or profane?
Carnal candy in dank chambers feeds a moment.
These hetaeras thrill me at the prompt of an algorithm.
Not at fault, their commodified love can’t end my torment.
My swirling turmoil phantoms take over this asylum.
Deep somnambulism now carries me to the house of mirrors.
Here, I behold my container, my proprium from every angle.
Curved and twisted glass reflects my contorted terrors.
While smooth, flat surfaces repeat my animus anima tangle.
After all these trials, I accept my multiform essence.
Accumulated psychic scrap, I reimage it in every dream.
This doctrine reveals we are never a single presence.
We impart mental habitats, our revised collections in an
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2020
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