Victor

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Victor

Poem

In the subconscient theatre of the macabre,
I ventured through the portals of sleep,
Found their play bizarre of twisted shapes,
Old contortions and confusions profuse
Lurking in their dismal folds of darkness;
Moving pictures of past woes were enacted,
Projections of newer fears grimly ready,
Are cast on the inward eye awake in sleep.
There I saw the serrated force engulfing
My parts in a vice like grim grip,
I fought in waves of will those blades,
Dim was the mood yet the will relentless
To waste the foe upon me with violence bent.
On the verge of wake I slew him straight
And woke a brooding victor from that fight.