The Abyss Beneath the Eyelids
The Abyss Beneath the Eyelids
My palms ignite like two censers of sparks,
the heat trickles toward my soles, honey of lava and sleep,
the blanket that never was enough is a sarcophagus of wool,
I sink into a pit, melting the mattress with a fire from another world.
I take off my silk bonnet, a spent moth on my temple,
the loosest knot is a crown of thorns on my brow,
and the room spins in the dark, a carousel of ink,
and the dizziness purrs, blue, into the ear of the night.
I float and I sink in the hands of a cruel being
who can't decide on its own what fate to choose for me;
my eyelids are two gates of lead, I can't force them to yield,
yet the jazz of another era is velvet made of smoke, a sensuous peace.
As the crescendo swells, I bury myself in the night beneath my lids,
my fingers claw at the void, roots with no earth,
my feet push upward, as if through a river of wool whirlpools,
and my heart, racing, pleads with the darkness of the abyss:
*Unveil yourself, great abyss; judge me, mortal that I am;*
*oh void from which all is born, sacred womb of darkness;*
my arms catch a liana, a rope of coiled dream,
and as I begin to climb, it snaps like a cello string, and I wake gasping.
Sweat drenches my forehead, cold as the dew of a dead moon,
it's noon, and the sun slips in its tentacles of rays,
fighting with the papers taped to the window, a shield of paper,
and I feel cold, a cold of an abyss that has forgotten me.
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