Corona Somnia


“O sweet everlasting Voices, be still” 
— W.B. Yeats, 1899.

It woke me up, a knocking at the back door.
Descended the stairs, spiraling down
to find no one, just some murmurings
of the heart, Zephyrus-whisperings
to unsleep a mind closed for a moment. Blankness;
blankness; my eyes reaching into snapshots, stretching
jet-hectic red streaks on sapphire canvas. Memories,
visions, colored blood, dropped in cold water.
An Athena turning her head away, with seasons falling;
candles in the dark, melting into incarnations;
a sudden fall, falling, pausing, elevating milky swans
flying off to longevity, cranes lagging behind
and a nightingale invisible to the woods.
Again and again till the eyes open to a halt of dreams.
On the bed, eyes staring blankly; the roof top,
the blackness that is the darkness of canvas.

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