30 Jan 2016 – Dreams
The road was rain and mirthless mud –
dark behind and dark ahead.
This slough of slop became my blood,
the shredded stalks became my bread.
These snaking stairwells dot my dreams,
but never lead me to the ground.
No echo sounding from my screams,
no matte-print map my path propounds.
Self-minted myths my wallet swells,
the likeness on each bill my own,
and if the script reeks high of hell,
the author bears the blame alone.