Written By: Arden Falker

Sleepwalking toward an old oak door

in slippers I forgot that I put on.

Catching a draft in my pajamas

mesmerized by blinding lights.

 

Drawn toward that straining glow

creaking floorboards as I pass.

Walking through an afterthought

thinking of when I was awake.

 

Taking measured steps toward the kitchen

when I walk, asleep, alive.

Strolling through my inhibitions

where my muted conscience

 

continues to hide. In a late evening flame

I indulge in broken sleep.

Rummaging through kitchen drawers

looking for something sharp.

 

As I dream of cutting grass, fleeting

memories come to pass.

With the water from the stream,

pooling warm, in my hands.

 

I turn to touch a tree, thrashing against

its calling branch. Splinters wake

me from my haze, of my compulsive state.

Kitchen knives stuck in the door,

bloody hands

oh, the mess I’ve made.



Arden Falker is an emerging poet from Audubon, Minnesota who explores the fault lines where memory, place, and language collide. His work is forthcoming in The Phoenix, The Chimes, The Unhoused Anthology (Prolific Pulse Press), Rundelania, Lovecraftiana Magazine, and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

The link has been copied!