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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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