Before It's Over
by libramoon C.
They say in dreams a house is a metaphor for a life
Windows open to the world, mysterious eyes seeking snowfall,
slush debris, snarls of auto travelers rushing through
Hidden inner rooms may appear, unsought buried treasure
Deep within decorated walls, a smiling child painting with excrement
Dimpling, she offers scented flowers never known to earth's earnest soil
Silly dreams, silly living, skillfully denying,
making much of
a molehill here or there
Mountains are metaphors for achievement
Struggling like Sisyphus, discovering like Pythagoras
basic relationships on which to build
Empires, like species of mystic birds
emerge from glowing flame, flogging slaves to
roll those rocks from imperial graves up the peaks of glory
Like family, and its social cognates, enslave to stories:
"This is who we are."
February snowing through conflated years
Fear was my ally, hailing me on, hugging
with glorious laughter, carrying my steps through
onerous trails -- and those ebullient ecstasies of survival
Drunk on the gold that surpasseth science or light
Touching the cold sting, letting the song sing through me
Do you?
Feel the music? Abandon your amygdala to dance free
awhirl in a swirl of laughing snow?
In dreams, inchoate, unremembered, do we relive those
moments of bliss to keep us balanced, to give courage in a life
less lived, less honored?
Old, glazed-over eyes seek momentary solace, look long,
longingly, into a silly mist of snow beyond windows closed
securely against the cold. A dreamworld revealed,
in the interplay of eyes and mind
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