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.
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