Recurrence

My dreams flash and spark behind my eyes like a dying light,

or like lightning striking the ground haphazardly and confused.

Then there you are, the only stillness and serene in the night,

the single constant between moving pictures and blank gaps

who fills the negative spaces and mutes the thunderous cacophony.

The hand, great and dark and bony, takes you viciously and suddenly,

a strong clutch of spindly fingers that mercilessly drag you down.

There is no struggle; you remain as steady as the quiet of the woods,

a regular Saint Sebastian with your practiced peace within your pain,

and yet I feel those arrows, sharp and angry, pointing out of myself.

A strong pull of anticipation grows and prods at my gut:

the drowning, the suffocation, the exhaustion, the calm.

Each night you fearlessly leave me for that vice-like grip,

and when it doesn’t take you, it takes you, or you, or you,

a constant shadow grabbing at my heels outside my dreams.

The days tend to pass in the flickering lights of the night

and I learn to adapt, to adopt that peace of your quiet woods.

With arrows puncturing my lungs, drowning my deeper breaths,

that gnawing feeling of anticipation scratching inside my belly,

and the shadow of long, thin fingers caressing my every step.

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