He stands at the border,
Bored and preparing to board
The B-Train into my unconscious.
He sees my thoughts, dreams,
of violent death, and the extent of its pain,
And death by disease, with all its dishonor.
I don’t know who He is,
And I don’t know why he’s watching,
But I think I’ll welcome him in.
I think I’ll brew a pot of decaf,
Just to disappoint his weary eyes.
I think that’d be nice.
Me and him,
We’ll have a comedy of manners
Within my comedy of errors.
This shade knows what’s best,
And won’t allow for pesky pleasantries.
He’s oft of the violent sort.
Someday, he will lay my bowels
Before my eyes,
And set ticks on my eyelids.
We know our fate,
We see what is to be,
And for now, he’ll keep me in my sleep.
Dcid Corvid 