Poem #10 of the 30/30 challenge for Poetry Month (April 10)

Chimeras steal my imagination
and take it on terrifying rides at
night through dangerous territory,
making me wonder whether the
horrors are real or whether I’m
just undeniably crazy.

Last night, rain fell from the ceiling
into a room with dirty beige carpet,
where a woman juggling empty glass
vodka bottles broke them, leading me to
contemplate vacuuming glass out of
wet shag flooring.

Someone called the building owner—we
knew the handyman had died—who arrived to
pry soggy sheetrock from the ceiling, revealing
anthills in the attic space, giving us cause
to ask to be relocated, because indoor rain
was not reason enough.

These dreams may be funny but they
are too odd to exist in a normal brain,
if that’s what I  have, so they cause me to
query what spawns these vivid ordeals.
Are my nightmares the price I pay for
subconscious perverse fantasies?

Last night’s exploration of the absurd will slip
away like those before it, yet I continue to
question the purpose of these bizarre trips
through darkness and to worry that
they are night guides, teaching lessons
I am missing.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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