In Dremes

- jan-u-wine

.....and I wake,
 
and 
 
it has all been a dreme.
 
Tender fingers of sun warm the floor,
touch with abandoned fire the deep forgetfulness of
the pillow....
 
 
drowsy, deep-autumn scent of tea,
roses, sweetly diamonded with dew....
 
the study,
books belovedly musty with time and use,
ink, sharp-bitter upon the quill.....
 
How.
 
how will i ever manage.
 
how will i manage to get there,
 
with 
this great weight 
upon me?
 
And I wake again,
in truth this time,
 
and it is no dreme,
and 
 
I feel the circle of It 
pressing my flesh,
 
like a knife,
beating
 
like my own heart,
the rhythm of It
running alongside mine,
 
becoming mine.
 
If I could but keep It from touching me.....
 
My fingers seek It out....
 
And find nothing.
 
No prisoner's chain about my neck,
the weight only a shadow'd thing,
 
a ghost of remembered pain and desire.
 
And
 
the desire is more than the pain,
my fingers
 
darting careless and frantic,
only to find more 
emptiness.
 
Darkness then,
pain and black night
and more dremes,
 
dremes of Ages I could never have known,
dremes leached of light and sound
 
dremes of death and desire.
 
Still (and stilled) in darkness,
I am aware of myself once more.
 
My throat burns and tastes of copper,
the hand that wishes to claim It
(that wishes to throw it away)
 
lies senseless and bloodied beneath me.
 
I have told them nothing.
 
(my fingers, fallen upon the uneven filth of the
floor, find also there my clothing, warm-wet-cold
and smelling of bile and blood) 
 
I have told them
everything.
 
And I do not remember
what
 
they
with their sharp knives
 
and foul teeth,
 
 
I do 
 
not
remember
 
what
they have told me.
 
And I sleep,
 
and dreme of the Western lands, beneath the Sun.
 
And there is singing in my dreme.
 
Singing,
at this,
my journey's end.