XI. The Charnel House of Dreams

The rafters are sagging with baskets of sighs, Under the gaze of a thousand glass eyes. Here lies the laughter that withered to salt, Locked in the dark of a memory’s vault. The dreams are all piled in a heap on the floor, Like skeletal birds that can’t fly anymore.

I reach for a childhood, but find only dust, And a rocking-horse covered in needles and rust. The walls are all sweating a thick, yellow wine, Distilled from the hopes that were never quite mine. The floor is a mosaic of teeth and of hair, Paved by the ghosts who are gasping for air.

“Pick one,” says the shadow, with fingers of lint, “A nightmare of velvet, a tragedy’s hint.” I choose a small box made of ebony wood, But it’s filled with the things that I never quite could. The hinges are screaming, a high, piercing wail, As the skin of the vision turns papery and pale.

You’ll sort through the wreckage, the bone, and the bile, And wander the ruins for a very long while. For the house is a hunger that feeds on the head, And the dreams of the living are the meat of the dead.