A Year of Poems – 208

One still small room
Locked in perpetual memory
Spinning out into old dreams
Half remembered only now
In the witching hour when all else sleeps
The mind ventures to old territory –
Decades old delusions in the somnatic realm

The walls close in
I cannot get out
Thus it has been
Thus it will be
The dreams call and chatter
Like a thousand voices
Whispering and yelling simultaneously
Quiet as death
Violent as memory
Dark as events which never happened

Then sleep comes
And the light shines in the window pane
Cracking through with all the glory of a day.

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