Postcard poem #2

I had this dream

I returned back to the place where we all started,

Before words were uttered

before eye contact was made

It was like time travel

except everyone spoke gibberish,

a rare mixture between pidgin English and

sign language,

You are calling my name but no words

come out except

xylophone melodies,

tinkling images of glass breaking,

I can slow down the sound of glass as it hits the ground,

and I am brought back to a place where

I am seven again,

Mom and Dad are orchestrating a musical in 2 parts,

Fingers and arms shoot out lightening bolts,

It is a remake of Clash of the Titans-

two gods struggling for control,

The second part is

us kids-mortals caught in the cross fire

seeking shelter from a shower of glass dishes flying across the kitchen,

I know you are calling my name

This is what I associate glass breaking with.


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