Morning Comes Uninvited
by Laura Doom
I woke to the sounds of a dream
echoing through my head, fading
to a point just beyond retrieval.
Not knowing whether to be distraught
or relieved, I left it in limbo
and sprang to my feet in anticipation
of another stimulus saturated day.
Unconvinced, the reader follows me
across the room, where we look into
the mirror. Yes, we know the world
is superficial, that mirrors are flat,
and for this we can be grateful.
We gaze upon a skeleton in the flesh,
a necromancer's dream, and implore her
through wishful thinking/silent prayer
to dispel our mutual embarrassment
with fast fashion and facial reconstruction
sorcery before resuscitation is required.
Once deodorized, dressed and decorated,
I answer the door, dismissing its unspoken
scepticism, dissing its wooden performance
of lockdown duties, and assuring it
that I am ready to be unleashed
upon an unsuspecting outside world.
Three months later....
Posted on 02/18/2021
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
|Member Comments on this Poem
|Posted by Joan Serratelli on 02/19/21 at 09:30 PM
I love your thought process!! Great read
|Posted by Rob Littler on 02/19/21 at 10:10 PM
my confidence is yours knowing holding on is useless as is letting go, curious you too know the art of pretending it didn't exist is the surest way to attend to your true desire, beyond caring we rest peacefully, mirrored into depths we don't need to travel, or have to... again or ever. Time is in a vacuumed helix a reoccuring drip until it rushes forth flowing as if it always was somewhere, minutes ticking and talking over the tops of heads stops when its the finger tips that are speaking...
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 02/19/21 at 10:16 PM
I admit I really admire a poem that can take the simple morning tasks and write them into a compelling set of moments. Loved the "skeleton in the flesh"- just brilliant. The use of "we" invites me into this quite intimate time of day - should I look, should I look away? :) The door - ah, the door - along with the delightful alliterations in that stanza, its role in this piece is pushed aside(open), symbol of the writer's optimism?, one hopes, for the coming day. I will wait to see what the three months' dotdotdots reveal in your next installment.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 02/20/21 at 05:25 PM
So rich! Had to read this in bits n' pieces, then all together just a moment ago; dang ADHD. Now that I have, love it from start to finish. You've got me wondering about the mysterious ending.