The REM pulls still-life pictures
From between her brows,
Drawn and heavy
As the gothic curtains of
A Pulp Fiction magazine.
The foliage and trees of
Her dreams spin their twigs
And spit their seeds as if
Their mouths were solar Gods,
Tall, living things that
Swallow her sleeping breath,
Eat the shiny things she’s sewn
Against the split-bone of
Her cranium as it spills.
The shadow people, black
Roaming beasts in top hats
Dance their mandolin-beats,
Sharp and still as dark matter,
Empty bellies swell their lone words
To ancient songs that steal from her
The invisible things she can’t have,
The sky calling her empty hands
Two wooden fools that wish for him.
She reaches into silver-gleam
Moon-glow and bites into
The sharp ends of dwarfed stars,
Pretending she’s just as high,
just as flamboyant, just as free
as all the ill-tamed creatures
of a dense-forest sleep,
beating their wings backwards
towards the open throat
of a spinning sea of swords
while she, though asleep,
is still searching for something.
Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.