As a child
dreams were of crumbling ruins, matchless in Greece and Rome,
travelogues of the home
the clash of the sword the word of god, dreams were a river, the
Tiber, Romulus and Rome, a mind quiver
the empire and Charlemagne’s home
the myth of Sisyphus, Hector’s modus, the vulnerable heel, all like
the keel, it hovered wavered. History phased into phantom, dark and
bright,
inner light, the world mine.
I mimed, chimed.
Dreams not Jungian, not Freudian. Only livid, vivid.
Metaphors of dark horses,
meditative Norses.
History shuttled, opened and closed. Me, daydreaming.
One day put on all shutters, broke gates, threw them
into an abyss of gutters.
