Incubus

The mirror
the light
the image
the lady
whatever I dreamt was never so shady.
A room I remember, a desk and a lamp,
my forehead boiling, my dermis damp;
I sat and I stumbled, mingling my thoughts,
attempting to unburden unsolvable knots.

Took the pen, scratched a word,
no ink nor sting could mark the board;
always a mind that seeks to be
inscribed in future, almighty free,
as a bird on the tree, as a fish in the sea,
as a man.

Despairing I tried to see.
Awe in my eye, feeble as ever
has it been. The space so clever
shoved, revealed a known shape,
and I in this most horrid scape
went dull, absent, and felt clearer
the lady
the image
the light
the mirror.

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