In twilight sleep, thoughts out of control, images take hold. Viewed against the canvass of blackness, dead people dance with succubi an incubuses. Tiny gymnasts balance on sharp edged swords in le cirque du soleil under a moonless sky.
Grimm’s tales of baked children and hungry wolves play out. On a runway starving women show the latest fashions in cardinal red. The Grinch stole my green silk Balenciaga gown. Gave it to the frog prince. Sleeping beauty is just a ******. She had too much of all of it.
Hermes glass slippers are sold Only too few and deserving Cinderellas, trophy wives of mummified kings. What they really deserve is not on the menu. Just le plat du jour of ortolans. The three pigs are out of breath, Not enough air for a *******. Rose colored glasses take on a nasty hue of watered down blood. Bottle green is not la couleur du jour, rather that bile color with a tint of pus yellow. There is a storm brewing, A tsunami rising, the earth shakes, Volcano red lava licks down the mountain.
Destiny? Fate? Apocalypse?
A voice whispers: put up a shield, a bright canvass. Paint with bold rounded strokes in earthen tones. Mold vessels to hold the morning dew. Catch rays of sun in a glass glockenspiel. Hum the world, sing life. Touch, feel, be alive.
A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds. Dust dances in a shaft of light. I am safe, for another day.