Untitled #1 by Laura Bramley

I dreamed that my words could
kill,
they were so old.
As I back-floated across a river
toward the somber shores of sleep,
murdered metaphors climbed out of their graves,
shook themselves, and flexed
their bony, eager fingers.
Women became roses, and
trees became women, holding on to their misty leaves like skirts.
The sun
(yes, there is a sun on the shores of sleep)
was clearly Apollo’s chariot,
drawn by four fiery chargers
who wished they could just turn
and bite
the jerk at the reins.
Those horses didn’t love my
ancient words,
but everyone else did, and fell – plop –
lifeless into the water,
dumb with awe at my truisms.

In sleepland, people did things.
Lots of things – I don’t remember
what exactly, but it touched on the Deep Inner Meaning
of Life – or at least of sleep.
I described it all,
floating
in a web of golden clichés, their
juice dribbling over my chin.
I must have looked a trifle odd.
But I published my book, anyway,
and it made a splash
(into the river)
and I was just about to enjoy
my royalties, when –
yes –
I woke up.