Waking From Dreams
A hole or two in the wall.
Flakes in the paint.
There is work to be done,
by demons, crooked horns
and Brooks Brothers suits,
politely armed with surgical blades,
familiar with each wrinkled scar.
They are persistent, you think,
climbing off the scaffold,
recent defeats notwithstanding
they come back day after day,
Your feet find the ground.
It is solid as truth. You draw strength
from the blood under your feet,
from battles past. Blood
that was meant to weaken,
meant to leave you weak, bed-bound
and lost to the world around you,
blood that grew blood, made you stronger,
grew scars of strength, able, powerful
like muscles, a fearsome warrior
in priests garb.
You invite them for tea,
Both an acknowledgment of their existence
and confirmation that with every battle fought
over a dozen years, neither of us ever win
That the scaffolding will always remain,
and some days, for both of you,
the battle is not worth fighting.
About this poem
Strange dreams in the night make for strange mornings. Depression that never quite leaves the stage. But more polite this morning. I think sometimes me and the demon are both tired. There is work to be done.
The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village. That place sings to me and every time I go, I come back with loads of pictures. An uncommon number of them turn into poems.