Bruce Majors

A moment of truth compels a greater bondage 

than dozens of years of lies. 

Anonymous

 

Night Visitors – Dream Scape 

All week, anxiety has been building. An abscess

of memories that won’t heal. A sick belly that Maalox won’t

keep from churning.

 

Walking familiar corridors, the house is filled with

ghosts, memories of my own little demi gods wanting reverence

I can no longer give.

 

Sometimes whisper-like noise enters the room.

Ancient Voices of Children” chanting together,

harmonic depiction of Winter’s broken heart. Quiet utterances

speaking at once … wind blowing in dry grass…

I have made many mistakes.

 

Dark wine, lucid recollections twisted

in my mind, some horrible, some less so,

communicated by the children of yellowed photographs, and old letters,

whispering songs, what I am, what I might become. Plethora

of strange options.

 

4:30 AM. George Crumb’s *timbrel essay paying homage

to Lorca and the haunting image of his poetry. As the

children speak, contrition swells and ghost memories

fade to black.

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