Fiction

A Midnight Zoetrope

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Creeping night, the shadowy arms
Stretch forth to choke what little life
Is left within these halls.
These snaking corridors,
The recesses of the mind,
Those little cubby holes.
The wallpaper is peeling away and vibrant
Colours come, peeking out in fits and starts.
The duck egg blue, whatever that is,
Yields cracks of persuasive pastel.
Stabs of violent hues within the night
Give way to swirling carnivals.

The cracks, they form a zoetrope –
The stage is set for wild, and untamed thought;
The script is gone, you’ll have to improvise
And hope the dreamweavers use proper tools.
The perfect plaster crumbles, slowly;
Absent, shoddy work one might say.
You can’t trust a handyman, so they say,
Whatever happened to the honest ones?
Died out like the dodo, and gave way
To the reign of tyrannosaurs and sharks.
Still, one only has oneself to blame for this.
An inky pool of velvet black
Flickers, always changing in the light.
Shadow puppets speak of prophecy
Or, rather, possibilities – nothing is certain –
Dancing on the walls inside this skull.
Fables come unbidden, always something to learn,
Something to weigh upon this scale
Of snapping synapses.

Let smiles not snarls sit upon one’s lips ere
Silent slumber comes to pass, lest storms
Muddle up the serenity with ever-changing brimstone
And cruel twists of fate plague the defenceless mind –
She sleeps fine.
But then, you never told her.