Blurry dreams
of waking things
touch like feathers
on the sleeping me.
Downy drifts, soft
and warm, sifted
through my catcher,
staving arrows, bolts,
from a wicked fletcher.
He lets fly in measures.
Salvos, two-at-once,
to pierce the map
that leads dreamily
to the treasures
of the mind, hiding
in plain sight,
those loving dreams
that calm the night.
Life.
I am the quiver,
where the nightmare
fletcher stows his bolts
for nightly
piercing-pleasure.
The bloodletter
measures success
in cups, liters,
and sweat-soaked
pillow-feathers.
My dream-catcher
is tattered from
the nightly fusillade
of nightmares made
by the haunting fletcher.
©️ Obol, 2019.
Marvellous
Way cool! I like this. By the way… you took it down as I was trying to comment on your song… I loved it! It was really cool to hear the poetry done like that and made me wish some of mine was like that.
Thanks! I wasn’t happy with the the song, so I took it down to retool it. Happy you liked the draft
I did. (And yeah, I figured…. but it was really good. I really really enjoyed hearing the poetry like that.
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