The Seer
The lank dark oils the bed
like a scarifying needle, blood-
tipped, red and ready for work
on your dreams. You whisper
the secrets of men and past
lives: the lover, the husband,
trickster, gangster, priest.
I move closer and proffer
an ardent ear -- thinking that
I might appear. The light
in the room is a knell, a kiss,
on this audience of two.
My hand is mute to touch
where skin has become a veil.
The strange bones of language
wander the room.
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Author's Note
Sleep is the open door.
Other stories by Philip F. Clark
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Sleep is the open door is a better title.
If you don't use it can I use it?
Share and share alike Samuel. Thank you.
Surrealy good.
Haunting.
I especially like "The strange bones of language," which, if Samuel doesn't steal it, I might. *
Thank you, Mathew! That came quickly.
I move closer and proffer
an ardent ear -- thinking that
I might appear. The light
in the room is a knell, a kiss,
on this audience of two.
Wild synesthesia. *