COLD FREEDOM

Dreams insinuate a feeling of weightlessness. The body feels light that wings never cross the mind. Soaring up high—the sky’s the limit— seems a natural thing to do. Flying is breathing.  The oddest thing: chasing, running slow without being caught. I can’t tell how many dreams I usually get in a night. A number, I suppose, though I usually remember only a couple, too distant from memory, if not forgotten. Some random scenes make sense, others don’t. Waking up without any recollection at all isn’t any weirder, like being in a state of amnesia— only feeling something happened without knowing if it actually did. I’m probably referring to nightmares now. Damocles’ sword is hanging over head when I get swallowed. It’s the part when I get my weight back—constantly falling without hitting bottom.

There’s this poem I wrote years ago with such theme. Here goes:


Raspy breath and horrid noises:
Midnight moon’s tongue,
Immobile journey stirring
Toward bottomless pit.

Guided by punitive nocturne—
A dirge enticing deaf ears;
Chains clanked in every footfall
Down the labyrinth.

You took the bait.
The soft feather cradling head
Paddled your stillness
To where the Light Bearer sat.

Thick black smoke swirling:
Victor’s wicked smile;
Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock!
Suddenly, silence.

© Gheeneil

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