The Dream of Death
MAY 25, 2025
I wish I could sit down on my shower floor and cry,
the kind of bellowing cry that rings your ears
and pops the vessels under your skin;
the kind that makes the neighbors think you’re crazy.
But the floor is a color only once ivory
now covered in a kind of mud, that can never be washed away.
My shower is old, as the rest of this dark house
and I realize I will miss it,
though I have been convincing myself of my longing
to leave it all behind because my journey calls
a like knifing pilgrimage across the desert land
to be covered in my own shade of mud.
I am terrified and fearless as I pray to God for a reason
to show me something to give me courage enough
to leave, as if I need one.
So I wait here, in the shower
for a sign from some kind of enchanted ledger
to give me grant to study my own realm of medicine
as if it wouldn’t trap me inside the cage, desire
the rage I feel toward this machine.
As if my tears would not fall in vain
for the victimhood I try desperately to wash from my skin
but it is etched deep and I have not yet found it’s core
so I think maybe, someone else out there
in a far away land, will help my soar
or at least stitch my wound
like an animal found bleeding to death
under a hexing full moon.
My pride has stung me this night and my worries
are troublesome for tomorrow.
And will we meet again? Yes, of course. I always answer.
