I Don't Dream [of you] Anymore

I don't dream anymore.
I count the taps in the dark.
I stare into blackness
And mark the paces of the changing hours.

I hear all
As if I am the only person alive
And sometimes I fantasize that I am.
I waste hours into thinking
I let them slip down the walls,
Pooling on the carpet.

The second hand of a clock
Is a slow heartbeat
Dripping morphine into my eyes.
I don't feel.
There is no need of feeling.
Only cool observance.

I live lives,
A new one every hour
And become master of every domain
I could build city's just to burn them
And empires just to drown them in a sea.
And I think of you . . .

I don't dream or plan
Or spin with different outcomes
And perfect ends.
I just remember.

I listen to the silence
And gather what wisdom it has to offer.
The story of my agelessness
Is told and retold
Into waiting ears.
As if I was always meant for it,
I saved myself just to hear the tale.

It becomes lover and mother to me.
God and devil.
How I abhor it's mute presence
And find comfort in it's every whispered second.

It becomes Holy and Heavy.
And I am it's single lone virgin priestess.
Offering sacrifice of words
And melody's
And sound
In wordless absolution.

Giving it my voice,
At midnight and one,
And two, and three,
til even four or five.

I tread this dreaming house
With quiet footfalls
Drifting in and out
Stopping to explore this night world
Prying secrets from the moon
And only she would tell me
For I am pure now, like she.
And I am aging fast
With these secrets
Weighing down.
Not that I care.

I keep them,
And they become part of me.
And I belong to it,
But it does not belong to me.
This world of wakefulness.
I give it my self to do with what it will.
It dwells in this house
As if I had wanted it.
But we are both unwanted.

It gives me the time
To dangle my mind
To erode my thoughts
Into sugar crystals.
That granule into white mountains
Somewhere distant of here.
I drop thoughts,
Awful and ugly,
Like bombs
Where no one ever was.
Or balls
Against the floor
Just to see if they'll bounce.

I dismantle life's complexity's
Into grains of sand
And blow them about
On the coffee table.
And I wonder if I'm God now
Or merely mortal.

I watch the day punch
The living fuck out of the sky.
I hear the sounds of bones crack
And the bloody light
Globing about like an awful hangover.

I am not pure anymore.
I am a night whore with to much ridding.
This worn papery skin is no longer
Alabaster and smooth.

The purple circles
Carve hollows under
These stupid eye sockets.
Washing up like a bruise.

Day has hit me
For I belong with the night.
I am the child it never wanted
Or the lover it couldn't give a damn for.
It pulls me,
Tugging, stabbing,
To show me I am real.
I am not a ghost
. . . or a priestess.
I will be what it wants.
But I refuse.
My eyes are aflame,
Burning and red.
I dismiss it.
I will not dream anymore.
Not for you, for I, for it, for them.

I belong now.
And thats all that matters.