Hmm, there seems to be theme developing here, if you can develop a theme in two posts. This is an illo for my children's book, Benny's Favorite Color and features Benny with a peacock at the Zoo.
Remember sleep, that trickster, laughing,
bright with moonshine? She draped curtains
of widow gossamer so thick over your face
that you inhaled her tiny hourglass of toxins.
She flung you into flights of unquiet silence.
Remember sleep? You walked through walls.
Sometimes, her light shone green, her detail etched,
complex and compelling. You saw hemp ropes with every fiber
shadowed against the checkered metal and concrete
bridge floor. Ropes piled like snakes on a bridge
that ended, like all your bridges, suspended above the middle
of a churning river. Sometimes, you flew. You flew.
Bridges dangled over open space, snakes of rope coiled
on their decks. You tumbled into snake pits, snakes slithered
in the henhouse, wrapped around the hen-hot eggs, wound
around your arms, your neck. You wanted to escape
or you wanted to rescue them from cold, heat, people attacking
or animals with fangs bared. You wanted to save them, you wanted
to fly with them though the aqueous air of their underwater caverns.
But all your bridges broke, hurtling you into space. You fell.
Over those bridges, toward open water, men swarthy
with rage, brandishing cutlasses and terror,
chased you. You turned and ran through complex mazes
of alleys and abandoned buildings. You were always trying
to accomplish something you couldn't quite remember,
something urgent and important. Understanding eluded you,
like sleep eludes you now. You fell.
Over and over, you fell off cliffs, tumbled, twisted,
a shrieking rag doll, waking before you smashed
on the jagged rocks. You'd read that if you died in a dream,
you died forever. No wonder the trickster abandoned you!
In the waking world, they'd find your body
curled in the womb of a dark invisible Persephone.
You believed in death until you died, again and again,
and woke, and woke again, and woke again
through onion layers of dreams, not sure which,
if any, was the waking life you’d come from,
the life you thought you remembered.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
The formating is wrong, it's supposed to be in six-line stanzas. My A post is here.