The Doors wild, dark refreshing, probing, satisfying. Unique, theatrical (respect, reverence) glorifying, worshiping, adoring illustrious, eminent, legends.
In sleep’s dimmest darkness, it is there. The figure stands in the open closet, not moving. And she barely sees shadow and still silhouette and in her room. Until she realizes it’s only the mischievous night.
Faces in the folds of a curtain in the afternoon sun. In fleeting shadows behind vibrant light bulbs. In vision specks after sudden sneezing, in opening of the eyes during night’s reign. And, in my heavily medicated presence, the faces are everywhere.
Sweet, the sweetest sound ever made. The whisper from your lips, calling my name. Never in the world, has there ever been, a sound so sweet.
The alarm rings
a harsh reminder
for the day to begin but the show from the other side
hasn’t stopped yet
A quilt-like haze
layered behind my eyes a kaleidoscope of confusion
colored by a patchwork of nonsense
Of monsters working side by side Of grown men reverting to infancy Of rock stars breaking bread Of babies drowning Of enemies being friends and friends becoming enemies Of the impossible being possible
The walk of the semi-dead
dragging this carcass
yawning and disoriented making a beeline for the bathroom
Bits and pieces
of old memories laced into
the past event dujour
begins to loosen its grip
The water feels like my savior
a rescue from Neverland showering accelerates
a sense of wholeness the tile underfoot signals more substance
of gobbledygook dissipates as the irrational
begins to fade into reality