squeezed out. Colors melting like so much snow,
somewhere seeping into the unseen earth of dream.
You’re naked and strapped down on a cold, old slate,
your eyes pinned open. They stand around you over you,
these your demons, your own.
You scream in bad timing and cold hands smack
it back down your throat. Doors fly open and they pick you up,
push you over, push you through, into that time you knew yourself.
There they beat you red and blue, throw you down and spit at you.
The commotion ends and you lay still. Roses are dropped over
you, there's an influx of light; of things rustling in the bushes; of birds singing.
They straighten their spines and the cracking wakes you.
They march to the door, close it, and forget you.
You watch them go, but are too tired to think about them anymore.
Up to you now, to stand, to walk, to clean the wounds.
And to never, to never follow them again.