She comes,

She comes,

Under the cover of sleep

Dusting me with magic

Sometimes hiding in shadows

As deep as any stygian mire

A spring of endless proportion,

Not a refreshment of choice,

Skirting the extent of dead pools

Is a macabre dance

For any dreamer

Bent on negotiating nightmares

As real as any waking.

Tightrope walking high above

The busy streets,

We are as ants on the sole of a shoe.

Never pay any mind to a collective conscious

When in the throes of panic

Drenched in the sweat of madness,

Silent screams and parched throats

Are as dry as a sandman’s pocket,

Swearing blindly that everything will be alright

As the moon disappears into a cloudbank,

Shadowed by halogen lighting

On the far side of the bay,

Where the highway skirts the rising tide

Heavy waters alive with menace

Even as they ebb.

Nothing is ever as it was

Appearances are always deceptive,

In half-light

The branches of trees reach out in welcome

Or to entrap the unwary

In an endless embrace.

There is a smell of decay

The aroma of death, even on a rose bloom

Pricked by thorns

Wailing by a wall

Looking down from a great height

The wire suspended between twin towers,

No longer there

Other than in retrospect.

Pretending to be happy

When the cock crows and she is gone

Whilst you are left to wonder

How it came to be

Though she was never truly lost,

She was never, ever, to be found.