The Dreams We Call Sleeping Poem by Patrick L Kalahar

In sleeping there are dreams
And we speak darkness
Out of a closed mouth
Forbidden thoughts cut from of an abandoned corpse
And carried, crab-like
Etched on carapace
In obscure symbols to be read at another time
With soft, probing fingers that substitute for dead eyes

The dreams we call sleeping are colorless
Happiness is not yellow
Remembered faces and thoughts are not blue
Reticence and desire are not red
The sewing machine on the operating table
is not lavender or brown
The broken alarm clock from childhood
is not the color of old ivory
The long-forgotten moment, now recalled
When a single gesture might have changed all
is not the color of fallen leaves

In the dream we call sleeping
The storm that rages has a bitter taste -
Like rusted metal on cankered tongue
That will not draw the lightning
Illuminations that lead to nothing
While pale scorpions search for hidden meaning