The Ire That Binds

I remember a dream I had when I was small. I awoke in my bed, I mean really awoke, no dream state. I felt the immediate press of fear, the closing in of the walls. The delicate mangle of eternity. Unknowable, unquestionable unrequited there. The walls transformed to heaving sides of dark flesh. In the corners the darkness itself stepping over the strangled form of light laying crumpled and prostrate at its feet. Advancing on my single bed like rows of silent waves. Waterless and without fear. For I was just a little boy with not much to offer in way of defense, but I was fleet of foot and rolled out of the bed before the darkness enclosed it.

Kicked my big toe on the corner of the wall as I peg-hopped around, feet spinning, ground barely moving...I flew into my parents room and hovered above their bed. Willed-on the reading light. Soft yellow light, wan glow of hearth, heart and home. Everything will be alright. No eternity, no night. --but they had fangs and reached for me with the arms of monsters.

I will never forget, more than fear, the sense of betrayal and I am reminded of this sensation a lot of late --when your omega lines to dust, your get-away plan has inked off the page in sight unseen spectral rain. Your best friend has died and the next and the next...more still are crippled, others yet MIA...in the War, in the War. (What Fucking War Den?)

--and you note the pattern mote by dust hanging in the light invasive to the floor that my best friend's died, my best friends die -- disappearing are the starving hysterical naked (Thanks Allen). That my love is a gift and a curse, that to love me is to die. Know this as you lay beside me.