Magic within realism within magic.
Sometimes I dream I have
human hands, useless
fingernails; no scales or
hide, just thin skin, easily
penetrated, ripped,
spilling scarlet.
One hand bleeds black marks
from a pointed stick onto
white wilderness, leading
everywhere, nowhere.
Why not leave emptiness be?
No, humans must cogitate,
always cogitate; in my dream
I think my black marks are
important, giving rise
to articulated exhalations
communicating meaning
to other thin-skinned beings,
as though they made
a difference to anything.
Such weak creatures need
to imagine some significance
to their ephemeral existence
which does mean something,
I realize as I wake, ravenous,
going to the larder, lifting
the lid, plucking up a puny,
pleading, squealing thing,
placing it in my maw, to:
crunch! I need many more.
~ Wry Welwood
30th of October 2021
written in response to J.D. Harms’ Scrittura Saturday prompt: weird visions.