Dream.
Holes
in the ground where a floor used to be
Punched
down through storeys, sliding towards gloom
While
workers walk on air, passing, warning me
Stay
clear for your own good, avoid this doom.
They
leave, I listen to the cylinder
Of
trace fossil rock, eyeing the cobbles
The
masons carved (those murmuring chisellers),
Left
to guard against me, protect their gospels
From
my sight. I turn away, uncertain
But
knowing that they’ve wrought fears into dragons
At
every turn, to stop an incursion:
If
words are ignored, here there be caverns.
The
price is high for reasons of their own,
They
turn me aside with guardians of stone.
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