By 11.07 AM I am captured, chased,
threatened by knives, guns and clichés
while tied to a chair
with my sister.
It is not the man we thought
it was, but his twin-
when we ask the one who looks like him
he has a vague idea
as denial shines a guiltless light
of shadow via polar eyes
it glints as sun internally
through cracks in council roofing.
They say dreams reveal the mental mess
which we’ve intended not to know
although I guess that all depends
on whether we remember;
at best they are a metaphor, but less
which leaves us lacking all the rest
of why distress is not an issue for
the bias of the bystander.
Here the facts never quite fit-
I’m sure the hair was gone, not
blonde, I know
I did not know a hero then
or own a car to lose-
so some things still aren’t true,
but feelings?
Feeling like the past repeating,
deja-vu of you still choose
to have your choices cut-
a need to be controlled, a need
I need to talk with you
about- I have it too
and all I do is do not choose
to talk with you about the room
where we were tied
while dreaming.
