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Crisscrossing
Every doorway is well lit yet barred and locked.
This is my dream body, it is chasing its twilit shadow
down blind alleyways
pausing only to heave breathlessly
as it comes to a stop
in yet another walled-off cul-de-sac.
Daylight couples slyly with moonlight,
it forms a vaporous union that creeps under skin,
We are two hands and a mouth,
weak hands scratching upon a lid of fear.
We call such mind-hauntings: nightmares,
yet they seem so very real
as we fretfully slumber -
then they chase us remorselessly
through our daily lives.
Why record such fantasies,
these myriad variations of horror?
Why relive the frights, the needling frets
of these subconscious ghost trains - images
that fly through all our darkly hidden spaces.
Perhaps only to share an elusive puzzle-picture,
to reach into other sequestered minds
that may experience the same
other-worldly hinterlands, the same fear-threads,
and there know we are crisscrossing
the same unidentifiable landscapes
all of us have created for ourselves.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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