27 October 1997

the seventh day I rested
as I did on the first and
and the fourth, fifth, and sixth.
I sleep, wake to cough
shuffle about in a non-ending
manner. cough
slick mucus clings together
dreams moist and clammy
and wake to cough again
thus the world centers or less

the center is somewhere behind
my eyes I think and spinning
the rest of my head around it



in a prisoned heart
there is a deafening stillness
the owner mistakes for calm
locking the bars tighter to
ensure the calm will stay
mistakenly peaceful
sleep comes bringing
panic nightmares
a frog in the well
can he survive like that?
Does it matter if he does?
He is dead to us the
spirit is unavailible for

copyright raven victoria erebus