Home: Poetry:
The
Dreamer's Introduction
By Oscar S. Cisneros
As fast as they rolled in, the fog and mist slip away
To reveal a man in black, just as night eclipses day.
He leans against a tombstone beneath a willow tree
And with a stiletto dagger, he picks at his teeth.
"How nice of you to join me on this chilliest of nights
I didn't mean to startle you, I didn't to fright.
I long to have some company, might we have a word?
I grow weary of this
raven. I grow weary of this bird.
All he does is squawk and bring me corpses' eyes
He won't believe my
stories. He won't believe my
lies.
So sit you here beside me, upon this swollen grave,
And let me tell a story. It's won't be too depraved."
He beckons you beside him, to sit upon on the moss
As he leans against a crypt emblazoned with a cross.
His fingers run distracted through his messy nest of hair.
His eyes light up with memories,
with joy and with
despair.
Pale is his countenance, hair black as raven wings.
He is elegantly appointed,
a coat of leather wrap his limbs.
There inside the graveyard he begins to tell a tale
About a doll who uses scissors
to escape from his jail.
By the end your left to wonder just exactly who you've met:
A morbid sullen poet, or some kind of marionette.
