Death reigns the waking hour. Intimate destruction, execution rolls in a blasted vehicle. Young fingers, powdered in nuclear orange dust the taste of salty cheddar- from finertips to lips. There was no divination for the final use of the senses. Perhaps dreams embed the experiences, becoming lived knowledge.
Careful. Drop the heavy back pack this time.
Wait.Open the bus window as large as a gaping door this
Time bolt and Stop.
Comb you hair. Buy yourself nanoseconds.
These are the lessons of the dreams-but why call them lessons since that insinuates their forbearance. Isn’t this why we endure accounts of survivors, to decipher how the body reacts in moments of bleakness. Why else know about genocides and murders, violations and sequesters? If not to learn how the body retreats unto itself, and the mind stands alone.
Uncomfortable, my visions of death in dreams resemble textbooks for survival.
-ECS. December 28, 2013