Dark the room, single candle flickered.
‘Twas not a room, but serves to call it such.
No walls or ceiling floor or door,
Candle hung suspended,
Projecting lines, like light, that did not shine,
Strung like webs that snared and caught
Imagination in its tensile thread.
At its centre, suspended, something monstrous,
Dark, consumed by ill-intent.
In the forest glade raced the Fae,
Questing, searching for the scent:
Stray words skittered shy of sun,
Searching also, seeking, hot pursuit,
For the way, the split, the wrinkle,
Furtive furrow, folded, in time and space,
Through which dreams seeped,
Interstitial pore, to stain the present,
In and out, potentiate, from and to
Places, Dark and Light, variegated intent,
Wherein dreams may beget
Brightest Joy, or Deepest Dark, Despair.
Treacle words, twisted and turned,
Tainted by darkest dream and ill intent,
Maladroit, malformed, twisted light strung Dark,
To the distant screech of night time terror.
Rodent wracked, sweat soaked chills,
Shroud sheet wrapped, he woke,
Frantic flutter, dark in light,
Imaginations kaleidoscopic medley,
Words branded into verse.
Dream faded into day,
Faint fair skinned hands reaching,
Faded as Dark infused, the Poet’s day began.