Each night I wake in sweat and fear
to sense my own godhead cruelly near.
The beasts and fates my chafing soul
breeds in Lethe let out of stables
foaming manticores no saddle brakes,
no bridle slows. We run a gamut
of gross nightish shows to bolt
in darkness crying for any light.
Our uncivil dreams prove the world
mad if unmade or made by us.
I lie down in peace and rise in fright
to recognise my mind a bad lover
to me in our bed, doubling terror
in one coupling head of woe.
No god would make worlds as lost
or wanton as my dreams become:
so close they are in feeling thought
to being thrown out far away from home.
new poem by Todd Swift; March 5, 2013.