Just In Impression

Dreams of roses red and violets blue—snared
and consumed ‘neath the waning
hues of this garden’s gloom. Naught
finds succor from the verdant hood
of each serpent coiled—shrouded
in a spurious smell of evening
dew raiding the air to charm
delicate reveries of dimming
moons—to be gorged upon by the cobra
lily’s sweetest plume.

Thus—night upon night—
I am plunged into the belly
of this flower—a mire
of turpitude and terror bloom
to devour that which is trapped
during each gloam hour.
Steeped in feigned,
confounding light—I’m lost
in the fright of unknowing
which way left or which is right—
unable to flee the horrors
found inside these thin veiled
walls—this feasting fauna
I succumb to its dreaded plight—
contorted, night after night.