I wake in a cold sweat
Another fever dream, it seems
Before the dawn of innocence
And the theft of the ancient city –
As above, so below, that’s how
The stories of old always go
I dreamt of my father, his weary
Face, as he robbed the temple
And flipped over tables
Of the money-changers,
Like a backwards Jesus,
Taking gold coins and shoving them
In tattered pockets of lore
Before my time, he was a good boy
But the world, as you surely know,
Likes to eat us alive, turn us into
Creatures of consumerism
Who know nothing but endless
Feeding on flesh
You may have guessed, but my
Time has come, to enter the temple
Of my fever dreams, and submit
To will of the patriarchs,
Those prophets of desert skies,
Who feast on my eyes,
And bury me below.
(Photo from Wikimedia Commons – Dream by Kuniyoshi Yasuo)
