My dream of words
At war in the cerebral forest
idioms explode into shrapnel,
words clash with branches,
small-legged animals dodge punctuation
and break ranks as the ground opens
to swallow the ashes of my wounded rhyme.
I stand naked at the window,
watch letters build
into well-dressed phrases
and attack like arrows.
I have not the muscle
to counter this assault.
I am becoming an old man
who curls over rough hewn tables,
scratches rambling nonsense onto yellow tablets,
each stroke chafing wits
like abrasions in my mind.
In the cold, my speech freezes,
my blue winter skin jackets the forest trees,
I wrinkle and harden with the bark.