dawn like a sleeping portrait

dawn like a sleeping portrait of my own face in repose lies across a night so still and fragrant with living decay that even the windows filled with the slow liquid of fire hardened sand become doorways for the glimmering second coming of the living gods of earth. day has no surface and the emptiness of time has no grasp on the awakened heart. I whisper and listen to the replies of the insects and night feeding mammals, all in a kind of wounded dance to the darkness for a protection that never comes. once the light reveals itself all pretense fails and what has forced its way into the consciousness of man becomes the hardened truth and nothing until sleep once more overtakes can slay that rueful dragon of baleful existence. my knees like  hammer blows quake and slide with the tightening of the ligaments and the belly full of poisons dances up and down with the actions of the brain. reality is the king of new clothes and underneath the desire of the killing machine unwinds and flows like a spigot of wine to the bacchanalian frenzy of mindless hope that can never be filled. I have no time but the instant of perception that carries no pattern but the light falling in a deluge upon the emptiness and from the waters of that seething sea of light comes the impatience of existence struggling to create its own creator and thus end its own need to exist and become the toy of children bent on self improvement. what play of erector sets and fun straws filled with sugar eat away at the beast and his mindless rage at living. cast no shadow upon the world of pain for everyday is endless destruction and every night a cool retreat from death. alive in the unconsciousness the dreams of the dying cast a spell upon those yet to come. one moment in the womb and all else is left behind to become one where none before existed. even as the sac bursts its way into the hard oxygen of the lungs there is uncertainty and then the fear freezing everything into pain but one moment of the heartfelt touch of love and the ice melts in a gladdening river of desire. take what you want and die another time to the life that is given to each and every dreamer that is born. desire flows like the blood in the mothers body that once was the same blood in yours but now is the blood of demons and angels fighting to control a world of changelings and deception, where every object reflects the reflection of your own fear and desire and has no inner nature but the touch of its hardened case and its imposition on the thoughts and senses of what you are. and that impossibility crushes the past and future into some recycled garbage that ends up in a landfill for the sake of convenience and lays dormant waiting for another century to leach into a field so filled with poisoned dreams that even night cannot protect you.