Coma Dream
I.
A siren song
a ghostly incantation cries
in the deadly darkness
to the naked souls in their shelters
and those driven into death’s sleep
a funeral band of bleating trumpets
and kettle drums stalks, nearer.
Moonlight through the tattered curtains
paints our feet in white stockings
a dusty blue jar
full of names on white petals
chatters on a junkyard dresser
of distressed pine leaned
against plaster spider webbed with cracks.
II
The random death parade wanders near
an ululating chorus of banshee flutes
a hungry sun blazes
a ravening burst eats the wall
a ghostly band of pressure
pinions me down
heimlich-ed of breath
suddenly in sunburn pain.
I breech to a straw-haired doll
lips of scarlet, stuffing spilled
in a marinara display
my blue gloves cloaked
in pulsed dark shiraz
sticky on my hands.
Flashing suns hopscotch around
feed my eyes with my hasty repair.
III
I waken in a whispered duet
with a beeping metronome echoing
my heartbeat
in a white room peopled
with dripping bladders clear and claret
screens spy on my life
with tubes and wires.
Vainly I search the room
cry for the damaged doll
a name in a blue jar.
Author: MF Charles
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