Three hours? Three hours!
Three hours of hell, then three blinks
And Death enters:
Pokes, asks, pokes again,
Asks further if I be ready to play,
I wheeze, caught tongue-tied
In the driest of deserts,
Petrified to play the game
Of one final hour;
I seek a safe haven, a shelter
From the stirring storm,
To lighten my load
As escape will unfold,
I wheeze,
Tongue tied to the tree of life
As bark meet virgin lips
In a silent lullaby,
I dream of dust and barren beaches
Hear a raven call, a summons
To a final feast; Then a poke,
And another lift the lids too tired
To fathom and fear the burning
Apparition floating up ahead,
I pray as I crawl closer and closer:
Be real, be real, you cheaply cut
Outline of a figure, like the last
Mannequin in a closed down store
Waiting in anticipation for anyone
To call โ only to find it gone,
The salvation, solution to
The simple unthought truth
Of moisture, of tears, or rain
To reawaken for real this time
The tongue-tied tired mind
Of the dreamer.
