October Dawn
This October dawn,
my mind is studded with boulders;
gray, black,
transferred from rocky dreams;
hard, austere leftovers
from nocturnal stone fields
& the steep screes of Morpheus,
disappearing into an ominous Doré cloud cover
I still, this moment, navigate these barren badlands,
well past the 2nd cup of coffee,
grains of sand crackling 'tween my teeth,
my body stretched out on its back on the bed
in a meaty star's pale existence,
in an involuntary mimicry
of a skipper's (Aquarius remigis) shadow
over a sandy bottom of shallow waters
under a blistering summer sun
My mind is at stake
in a rock-full of the symbolism
of honest dreams,
having me climb across,
or navigate in between these same,
repetitious, sharp & edgy bodies
at the bottom of gravity, past breakfast,
past an old man's medications,
into this lucid wake-scape
of the tactile present,
which always keeps a blinding eye out
for these illicit lettrisms on the verge,
these motionless screes of sentences;
words that keep tumbling
through a life lived
through a series of mugshots,
flashing across these barren vistas;
mirages of distant slopes & ridges,
appearing smooth as silk, as lace,
albeit on approach
just another aggressive scree of boulders
caught off-guard,
petrified in their ancient ambush
through millennia of patient erosion
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2024-10-01 at 11:25
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