Untitled, n = 1,734

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He sleeps in the tunnels and dreams on down.

His dreams zip their way down the decaying wires,
which spark and frenzy until they start fires.
His dreams rust their way down the ancient rails,
til they twist and warp like slithering tails.
His dreams crack their way through the intercom,
giving no info, destroying all calm.

He sleeps in the tunnels and dreams on up.

Lights flicker into the underground car,
oozing into minds that were left ajar.
The riders feel glimpses of his dark dreams,
but can't understand the alien themes.
Their minds reject what they see in that light,
and they toss and turn all through the night.

He sleeps in the tunnels and dreams on out.

The dreams slide out of those dark, empty holes,
on tentacled rails and tracks in our souls.
Past the fast roads where mad swerving is cursed,
under the spans where suicide is nursed,
past the apartments reeking of despair,
out to the burbs as domestic warfare.

He sleeps in the tunnels and dreams it all.

n = 1,734; October 30th, 2016.


A little Halloween poem with a Lovecraftian bent. I was walking over a bridge where the D.C. Metro comes out of a tunnel, and the train tracks looked like Cthulhu's tentacles.

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