There is a terrible repeating dream,
a rag seized by the dog’s teeth of the brain,
shaken ferociously, again, again,
a hundred years in one night, it would seem.
It leaves the mind in tatters. The same theme
mutters its sequence, unworked-out, inane,
its brain-spot dominant. Semi-insane
the mind runs in its groove, a soundless scream,

and wakes. I thank the day for light, for water,
and that it can remove, as by caress,
this nail driven in the head, this weariness.

But there is no defence against a slaughter
again, again by night. In this recess
the mind has met its match. No more, no less.

Share away: