Before I stirred,
I dreamt I heard
whispers in
a walled
garden.
The wind whistled
as it dipped low,
atop the stones,
and paused, perched,
like gargoyles,
watching.
The weight of antiquity
pressed down upon my shoulders,
the wallstones, aged and weathered,
were rounded at their corners.
My bench, a single, great slab,
seemed both natural and hand-wrought.
It felt charged with intention,
as if it had known blood
in withered days –
a well-worn pagan altar.
I planted my palms
on each side and tried
to push myself to standing,
but the stone pulled at me,
as if with desperate hunger
…clawing and frantic.
Confused, I surrendered.
Waking from that dream
seemed like a gift, from gods
that wander in sunlight.
Or, like a random fisherman
who pulls me aboard,
just as saltwater things
nibble at my toes,
in the dark.
Still sleepy,
I dressed myself
and drifted out
into December’s
cold, forgettable
morning.
These sidewalks
are altars that
have known blood.
But, what gods care
to watch or listen
to these offerings?
There is no one to protect us
from bizarre wants, codes,
fevers, and the real knives
of make-believe
…and there is no one
to pull us away
from malicious intent,
with a stern,
but friendly,
warning
…not while we still sleep.
©️ CG Tenpenny, 2024.