Whispered Wanderings

after Edgar Allan Poe

And all my nightly dreams
provide me rest no more:
send twisted versions of my Self
a-howling through the door.

Then waking in my bed,
forgetting where I am
I cross a threshold of the mind:
some mental telegram.

Since no one told me where,
I don’t remember when.
Although perhaps I know this place;
and may return again.

Those twisted versions of myself
collect now dust, upon a shelf.

klm
9/25/24