|Dream, M.C. Escher, 1935|
Dancing On The Tombs
she's sane enough
though often the alpha in the herd will lift
a muzzle and sense...something off.
No one wants to come too close
because of the wild so poorly
concealed under the makeup.
Still, by day she's sane enough.
At night, she prowls on Escher stairs
turning back and back among the tombs
dancing to sharps in the Inquisitor's song,
to green voices in trees, nacreous hums in fishscale
clouds skinned over the moon, red yells in demon winds;
her head bobs rhythmically at these, her kin.
She sings to the unquiet dead, adds interrogation
to conversations of chaos, invents answers
too blue to believe, too black to weave
the color she wants. She keeps her ears
out far on their stalks, seeking the Beast
let loose in the moon marbled night.
She has a bed, a sanctum's space, a nun's cell where
his angelus sounds, yet each night she spins out the
door, dry seed in a whirlwind, clawed half-made from her pod
trying to climb the stars, falling, calling, explaining, wanting
owl hoots for a voice so she can cry without being found.
But by day
she's sane enough.
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Image: Dream, by M.C.Escher, 1935
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