Indigo Nightmare

 

The murder of crows
rain from the skies
swarm the earth
caw and crowd wildly
a chaos of cacophony
a frenzy of undulating black
tearing at a shadowed heap

drawing more closely
I see the object
of their mania

a body
a lifeless body

my body!

my eyes jerk open

waking with a start
shuddering a fevered sweat
I’m tight
in this nightmare’s grip

no alarm
need bid me awaken
this day

a fumbling for the lamp
follows moments of confusion

sitting upright
I slow my breathing
wipe dry my brow

then
throwing my leges
over the edge of my bed
I stumble my feet
into my slippers
and slowly rise
from the soak of my mattress

still shaking slightly
I tug on my robe
amble to the kitchen
take a cup from the shelf
and pour chamomile tea

it’s brewed ready each morning
by the wonders of technology

retreating to my office
to my chair
where it waits
welcoming
in a pool of soft light
buffering the pre-dawn dark

I sit
sip my steeped motivation
quietly peeling away fog
that lingers still
clouding my mind
residue of this fitful night

somber
I’m pleased to be awake
to be alive

grateful for the peace
for the deep quiet
of early morning

finally
my thoughts
begin to un-blend
to gather

slowly they sort
in colors of my dark mood

melancholy greys
fear’s dark ebony
the purples of pain
blood red of anger
the violet of regret
and sorrowful blues

it’s an incomplete spectrum
stirred by this morning’s
reflections on death
on my mortality

recently threatened twice
by my failing heart
then under the surgeon’s knife

these bleak colors
shoulder in coldly
crowding my reverie

pondering my plight
cursing this recurring fate
I struggle
‘neath the weight of my uncertainty
of my heavy insecurity

a riot of emotions
overcome me
crowding in
like this morning’s madness
of the imagined murder of crows

I seek clarity

I reach for my laptop
my escape
my refuge of resolution
my canvass of language

I slowly lay fingers
on keyboard

in the spreading saffrons
and corals of dawn
I begin painting
deep indigo

*
rob kistner © 2022

More poetry at: dVerse