Timepiece

He had his dreams, of catastrophic weathers, out of beach towns...paranormal, twisted things, writhing out of ocean basins...great heaps of grey waters, higher than mountains, and dreams would end.

Other dreams came, of blue highways, afflicted with a life of their own...no brake of car could tame. He would ride it there, eight seconds, on some crazed great beast! Other dreams, where every trail taken 'left', would end with lessons, that would make him scream...warning him.

He faced, so many things, in terrors of his night visions. He dream'pt of all things...prelates, generals, state secretaries, other monsters...driven round in long green Citroen's. The rich, fat rats and cats of all the world...aimed to stare him down, but could not, and left, like, cold wind...with their entourage.

He, introduced, about town, like a ghost of Christmas. In such dreams, Vienna, Rome, Barcelona, Venice...old god's of the mob, of the sky, and, of Vatican City. made his acquaintance. They couldn't have him there. More's the pity.

His friend, of the cloth...brought him , nor, could be refused, to their tables, ripe with plenty...for his guide, was one of them, but not of them...completely. He'd had a soul left. They all knew. They all witnessed...nor one, could now deny.

Dreams continued on. "Look at his eyes", she said. "We don't have long." The occulist peered deep within, and jumped...like he was stung, and pulled back...a frightened one. Why, so frightened, then?

Yet, he went on...to other dreams, and other dreams, a child...through many doors, too many doors, to ever close again...for his, were keys to all, until the book lay naked, open, on the floor...revealing everything.

None of them, wanted this...yet, none of them knew...how to stop the child's wreckage of designs, had been wrought in hell...to foist upon this plane. He knew every last, little, detail, all the traps...he sprung them all, nor ever could they be...reset.

A matter of time, till it's all done, it's all gone...a matter of time, now...for, a light is upon the horizon, nor, can any lie subvert this rising of a dawn, nor can the darkness dream, a bitter thing...to bring it down, that it be undone. It's just a matter of time.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: wordless tech, poetic timepiece