Seven Nights Ago

As irrational as passion, or a shallow flash of fashion

dyed the sallow carotene of rotting pumpkin, violently

mixed with drunken dreams of Pasternak’s Zhivago

on a gruesome Halloween, the scene that turned into

your nightmare seven nights ago has since amassed

and primally beset you with a range of strange effects.

In a week of nights it’s turned its vast variety of dreck

into an undeniably arresting composition whose black

lines tenaciously inhabit your imagination to showcase

that sallow carotene as an unprecedented color to be

reckoned with. It’s decked your halls with ghastliness

but there is something in its mirthless flings made under

great duress that now appears to promise coalescence:

or the prospect anyway of some new view of essence

if not quite of you, than of another consciousness too

alien so far for your dimensions to construe. You wonder

if you stumbled on the secret meaning of a nightmare.

It may be there more to inspect you than to scare.

.