The Wake

Thus, I am summoned to the court of the Dream Lord
To witness the endbeat of my best friend’s passing
– the last vertical (and therefore : immediate) pulse allowed before the surrender of our
responsibilities to the river and its rhythm.

I am, in that instance, a child.

The long black coat over my shoulders is not of my choosing,
But maybe a homage to the dead – mine
and the ones to come
And the rest.

There are words :
Family, friends, various encounters,
Sometimes none,
But the speaker – vertical – then fills the silence with silence. It matters.
I stay low : in this dream, I shall be a mute child
In grown-up clothes.

There is no body, but we stand around a pool of light
which can be nothing but what passes for a grave in dreams
(I do not dream often,
But I know as much about death as any other
And there is a boat set into motion on a somewhat familiar water plane,
And tears running perpendicular to it
And solemn faces
– I rest my case.)

They stay,
And I stay, and either
They go, or I.
It is probably them.

Awakening ensued- recalled to life
The stars as steadfast here than there
The morning dew manifestly oblivious to its implications.

I ate what I could, looked up,
And flew away to deliver my daily load of supposedly bad omens to family,
friends, various encounters,
and others.

Vastly prompted by the rereading of books nine and ten of Sandman by Neil Gaiman.

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