Poetry Year September 19

Nine
Nineteen
Ninety
Nine Hundred
Like a chant the numbers reel through my brain,
swimming in doses like a medication swirled from all the awful entrails,
and decanted from a skull by some leering metamorph,
whose mask belies the ages of the age.

Each entry in it's grid loosens me from my moorings,
adrift on the bay of accounting,
the coming hither and thither of all that is withered,
dry and dull.

I long to sleep.

Never
Never never.
Never Never land.
The bed would be a sail to dream reaches of fair infinity,
a concoction of the memories and traumas,
traum, is the German word for dream,
spilled together by that self same shaman.

Jung sewed together his soul in a dark red book,
littered with letters and literate with symbols,
self, strife, and striving, storm and struggle,
locked in neat uncials hidden from his office.

Locked away to locked away,
and then published in a wink.