Old Roots

♦ Thomas Beard ♦

As I write, these words are twisted

By a strange compulsion in my bones

To sink into the darkness

Where my nightmares are at home

Finding solace in the sleep

That pulls me from my dreams

The word I write is “dreams,”

But even that comes out twisted

They are deeper than dreams, in my bones

They do not wait for the darkness

I find no sanctity at home

In fact, the only home I know is sleep

And I fear nothing more than sleep

I see no difference between dreams

And the waking moments of night, twisted

By candlelight, chills my bones

It does. I cry out to the darkness

And the response tells me I am home

I do not know a place called home

Except for when I sleep

Without inciting any dreams

For even dreams can be twisted

By the rattling of bones

That roll like dice in the darkness

To be able to see in the darkness

Oh, to be able to see the path home

And finally, to sleep

Without a broken mirror’s dreams

An image of yourself, twisted

Reading the tellings of your bones

As I write I know the bones

Have given me short time, before darkness

They have spelled out, H-O-M-E

From the annals of my dreams

And crossed the letters, made them twisted

Oh, read the dreams, read the bones

Read these twisted letters: H-O-M-E

But there’s no sleep that can banish the darkness