Dreaming Driftwood

Comments (0) Death, Issue 4, Poetry, Writing

by Robert M. Mendonsa  

Amber doors of dawn
     Wake me from sleep
Dark as death,
     To roam from warm, hazy streets
     To the cold moors of dread,
Past the frothy window panes sheathed
     From the breath of all these undead;
They march along the shore, unable to weep,
     Howling at life’s cosmic jest.   

Deep doors of dark
     Slam flocks of skeletal sheep
     Into a catacomb of tomes
To sit with pride stained that seeps
     From splintered, sodden bones.
Even though they can’t sift, or see
     Through a single page of prose,
It is here their knowledge will peak
     Lest they escape the debt that all men owe.

Cimmerian doors of depth
     Reap the strength
     Of my driftwood oar
Leaving white knuckles too weak
     To close the distance to the shore.
The water is unable to speak
     Despite its shoals whispering of yore,
Yet this Stygian ocean keeps pulling, pulling me deep
     As though it will endlessly keep
The last of my begotten lore.

     And it is only then as I see,
Only then as in a murky dream,
     That I see of the frame,
The fiery frame of the mountainous,
     Golden Halo Door.

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