Dreams in the Key of Darkness (day 1343)

Sometimes dreams don’t leave room for imagination;
Waking with a fright and deep recollection.
Hollering into night cools my lone wolf.
I’m a man of slip-slopping recollection,
I dine with strangers who share my wine.

We beg for answers when we’ve shown no mercy.
We all do.
It’s the cruelest of tortures that bless us rancid
Until our feverish states blow our sails full.
Darker seas then any wind-swept sailor would care to see.

Rupturing up my torn soul
I do continue to howl in my brief waking hours
For my window has closed and my feet become sore
And my alley of sinister has just become cold,
To await my march as darkness in greeting.

My Heart is a Lemonade (day 1336)

Whisper to me in silence until rain forever stains.
I want to hear what your heart cannot speak;
I want to let bumps upon my thickened skin
Wash away with lines of another chance.
Wishes of a heart that came and never thence remains.
I can live here for as long as my number remains the same,
Until my idle thoughts formulate
What figures my fingers are much to scared to trace.

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Days of the Week Poem (day 1332)

Butter me on Sunday
Split my hands upon the door,
Call the lady Monday
At a quarter after four.

Lunnegan Lunnegan Lunnegan Sat,
Place your bets here and I’ll make you a stack.
Gone is my friend, night after Tuesday.
Biscuits and rawhide are left in the mud.

Every missed Friday
Is a Wednesday fallen flat.
For opening the windows
Comes Thursday tru-ra-loo lore.

Wrinkled Sheets (day 1322)

When twilight circles my mind like crows and shadows at the hour of feast
I wish for silence, a thousand feet deep.
A silence so lasting that breath trails off into
A frozen pane of windowless reflections,
And the moon clears it’s sleepy eyes
As it gazes over sharp backs of rocky mountains.

Stars must look different from up there, shining so bright.
I have always imagined they have different colors
As the temperature drops.

But from a thousand feet deep I can find only shadows.
I crawl upon bloody knees and fight for my own feast
Among crows and worms who, at this intimate an angle,
Scream like black night and wrinkled sheets.

I pause for a moment struggling to understand
Black lines that criss-cross my hands.
Black arcs that cap my fingernails, digging deep.
I find twilight again as thought slips from my conscience
And incoherent noise picks up again.