Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Study In Kafkaesque

I slowly come to 
as light creeps across the floor
and dissolves what I thought
had fallen through
the torn sides of a dream.
Nothing is there but
the scuff marks left 
by fleeing ghosts.

Unalterable facts assemble 
and lock shut around 
a narrowing space housing all 
that I think I am.
Faces appear and find
their place in the gallery
of portraits, some smiling 
others wearing a haunting 
sadness. Love attaches 
and takes up the tension 
as thoughts move and stretch, 
each nerve linking 
to a loved one. I hold on 
and hope it's enough.

Then fear rummages through
its wardrobe of masks, trying on
each to see what best fits
the day. It likes to look ahead.
Morning begins its rituals
to hold back a harm
that hangs over me
or stop the countdown 
ticking towards some
menacing, undisclosed 
catastrophe.

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