Broken Clock

Some say dreams are a mirror,

a leak through the veil,

the sun etching shadows in moon glow.

Yet no Jackson or Lovecraft,

could expound the haunting

that chained me to my childhood bedpost.

.

It started with black–

the deep kind that drowns–

my closet ajar in the basement.

No prayer could muffle

the sound of long nails–

scra-scraaa-scraaaatching like forks on dull pavement.

.

Then the eyes–putrid green–

through the doors, through the tear

of the universes meeting in one.

Gna-gnaaa-gnaaaashing my teeth,

biting cheeks til I bled

near the scream that I trapped under my tongue.

.

Fear took me in ice–

frozen limbs, dripping mind.

I cowered alone in the corner.

Long stairs and short legs,

lava rugs all ablaze.

To hide or to run was my torture.

.

But the hangers would screeeeech

with the creatures' impatience.

I'd never be safe til mom held me.

Two flights of soft carpet

one right then a left–

the hope of my parents propelled me.

.

I'd run past my vision–

demons in my shadow.

My climb chased by stom-stomm-stommmmping.

Clawing at my heels,

crimson prints in a trail,

'til my fist broke their door open, knocking.

.

I'd slam slaaaam it shut,

turn the lock, then my frame–

my sweat shining, cold, on my temples.

The hallway went quiet

but... so were my parents

for no blankets did stir, even tremble.

.

Still, two soft piles,

where their bodies lay silent–

a tangle of warm linen covers.

Maybe sleep sewed their ears

so I ripped the seam, shaking,

but it wasn't my father or mother.

.

There, cloaked in ink,

were the closet creatures

their teeth hanging razors through snake lips.

They'd rise with a cackle,

looming tall–then I'd scream–

til I woke myself up–out of their grip.

.

I'd stare at the closet–

this time it was shut.

So I'd spring to my feet, scared and weeping.

I'd crawl up the crest

to my parent's bedside.

But I find that it isn't them sleeping.

.

For there in the sheets

is the grin of the devil

spread across two monsters' face rot.

They chase me awake

screaming murder until

again, I'm alone in my sheets knots.

.

This time when I wake

will it be my true bed?

Will the closet be open or closed?

This time, when I stand

at the foot of their bed,

will I find the same parents I know?

.

A sick, broken clock,

chiming red in my room.

Repeating and tangling night thread.

I don't know when to run.

I don't know when to stay.

Don't know if it's real or in my head.