The images inside my head swirl whites and blacks and greys;
They count the woes and terrors born of all my numbered days.
They tell to me the fates of strays whom never love has known,
And this quite simple horror even vices shan't condone.
I pit myself against my home inside these bitter dreams.
I cannot help but wonder of my life split at the seams,
And these demented ancient schemes my soul oft bring to tears.
The not-so-distant window lights the way for all my fears.
The sun's blazed ray so brightly rears a body in its bed.
My eyes move slow as moonlight to their greatest earthly dread.
The man there lying in its stead is no more live than dust.
My eyes drift slow as moonlight to the greys' and blacks' distrust.
They often do what evils must: the man is not but one.
He is my pa and husband, my brother and my son.
He is the face of fate undone--for every man I've cared;
The morn makes me the wiser for a world the dreams have spared.

And when I see their waking fares, I cannot help but shed
A fit of tears in honour for a morn to stay such dread.

4/23/05