Overly weary minds
are prone to
some misinterpretations
of reality

particularly in this
dim lighted
and dusty patchwork old dream
of living life

mistaking shifting shadows
is common
to believe them something else
a sort of lie

to see multifaceted
darknesses
perhaps as nightmares, dancing
dessicated

like lacerated corpses
of stormclouds
that we foist poor shapes upon
to amuse us

one should not imagine that
this worldview
is very endearing at all
disregarding

the being you happened to
forget about
shrivelling in the daylight
of blind neglect

the umbrean mirages have
real shapes
they are not so uncertain
of themselves

when we drift off, eyes slipping
from the page
to a toll three hours silent
electric drone

they unhinge, in the corners
freely about
haunting the closing triangles
of our sight

transforming ostirich-like
junk piles
sitting petulantly on
shelves and chairs

into their true umbrean forms
now sidling
away on thin curtain rods
blinking antique marbles

their wings so stained with rust
they do not
have any intention of
flying away now

let us hope those beings we keep
underfoot
and forgotten will negotiate
our safety

let us hope they do not fail
our shadows to a shade
or swiftling claws with edges made
of daylight & midnight pale

shall find us blind
and tear us apart