by Nick Gisburne
My dreams are dark reflections, broken, blunt.
They show me what I was, but what I am
Is frozen, fooled, unable to confront
The wall of sorrow into which I slam.
I lost. If that were all of of it, I’d run,
Towards a new beginning, free and fresh,
But losing not a wager, but a son,
The wound is raw. A dagger rips my flesh.
What misbegotten beat of butchered time
Could splice and stitch the patchwork of such pain?
The bells of the apocalypse will chime
Before I quench the blaze within my brain.
My dreams are dirt. The mirrors laugh. They lie,
Pretending they can tell me, show me, why.
