Not human. Floating in the dream.
Stuck in a box, that face,
familiar of the dead, after the catafalque, before the earth.
Why ochre? Silica, aluminum, oxyhydroxide.
Umber, sienna, rust, burnt orange.
A fire, then. Splitting the light in sliced red flame.
She can feel the heat.
The origin of this delusion?
One of the books her mother snatches from her, likely,
neurotic, protective, insistent she
can’t bear the consequence of carnage.
There was a dybbuk at the window once,
smirking, malicious, restless
to possess a living soul. That one
was not conjured from a fable.
The filaments of this dream scare
her, convert her resolution to be
strong into a maelstrom. This
jack-in-the-box-like thing is evil.
The dream fades but her investigative
instincts linger, demanding she consider
what this deformed, incorporeal being
endured. She is an empath, deflated now.
Word count: 148