Night Storm

A storm on the edge of sleep, a night storm, a night horse, black fire blown through wind hollowed lungs. A storm in the ringing shell of self, where sleep slopes down to a dimming light. The mind has shape, it has a thousand miles of tundra. Mountain ranges. The mind has miles. Dragons are tossed in the air; on their backs, those forever lost - wave hello. The red beaks of storm gulls are open, and they sing of the deep sea dreams we never remember. Macabre images chase scaly tails through maelstroms. Mushrooms flower miasmas of ghost-moths. Amid this teacup tumult, a child looks out, a storm-child driven to the high ledge of night. A tempestuous place where lies a slumbering head, sleepy legs dangling over a pitched and plunging bed.