Dreams as Doorways to Devilry
Deliberate Deliverance or Death
by Terry Thomas

When you moan, thrash feet (running from something)
and splash sweat and wakefulness, do you remember
what Mr. Id had hidden away for you all day?
Was it The Prince of Lies, squatting on your chest,
blowing sweet soft sin in your nose, forked
tail flailing skin to a flickering red,
snickering like a toilet bug with a dirty joke?
Was it Michael, grim, wings trimmed to
a muscled back, flaming sword rising,
rising, rising... gold breast plate shining,
blinding, in all your lost glory?
Or was it a simpler story? Comfy Autumn,
end of October... no treats, nor tricks.
Stark, straight-forward billowing shape
in black cowl, robe and cape, glimpse
of too-tooth grin, holes for eyes and
the glinting surprise of the scythe,
a flash of color cutting through bottomless dark?