Subconscious
The deepest part of memory is a trench,
The black of seabed wound. The strangest part
Is not the darkness or the tides that wrench
The conscious mind. No. Claws and teeth that smart
The brain convulsively come up to bite
Or tear at us in bed. They are alive
To us, alive as life to us at night,
As real as waking moments. Monsters thrive
In dreams and horrors like a tidal wave,
A lake of viper fangs, a heaven ripped
By holocaust-like flame, or like a grave
With howls of zombies, purple poison lipped.
..These memories are too stark for wide eyed days,
….Too much like goring bull’s horns in a maze.