her grey hair lifts from where it spreads across the pillow,
she wakes in a sweat.
she believes in her dreams,
paying close attention to the man wielding the axe,
made of wisps, made of fear.
she moves to stand up.
surrendering to her will, surrendering his axe,
the man lies down on her mattress, engulfed in her scent,
dreaming of ashen tresses,
and of slender arms lifting a glistening axe.
this house does not creak,
it’s too brand new.
nothing settles at night.
the ghosts of our pasts
stampede in silence
skirting past lamps and vases,
cautious around the cat.
the season has changed,
it’s colder now
and the tree may come out soon.
joy will have come and gone,
no one will have noticed,
for the eeriness
dampening all sound.
i am a ball of lies; truth entwined(?)
all i know is that i wasn’t born with a moral code.
it’s true that what i make believe is not true
because it is only true to my own senses(?)
then nothing is true, nothing is real, nothing makes sense, nothing is here,
the sun and the moon are engaged in a sort of domestic violence
only a few stars littered over the expanse have noticed,
so has the busty owl through the landscape of her eyes
to give something a name of affection is to control how it makes you feel
blind fools, contentious blind fools!
spin close to the breath and spin right off.
creating more of what there already was.