Following My Dreams

The other night, I dreamt of Death. 

"Ah, this is Hades," I said to myself 

But possibly to someone else --

Possibly to everyone else. 

I plucked him off of his coal-black steed  

And placed him on a silver buckboard. 

He was only the size of a figurine, 

And he and his horse were coarse and ugly 

But not unfriendly. 

Last time, I dreamt of a sleek black panther. 

The cadence became interrupted, 

And turning, I beheld this almighty beast 

As it passed me by, ignoring me 

Yet coercing my attention away from inanity 

And onto its own grace. 

It slipped away, and I woke up. 

The next day, I was told my grandmother 

Had died. 

Today, an old scar opened up on my shoulder. 

It was one of those nervous, self-inflicted wounds 

Effected with too long a fingernail 

And too long a hiatus from, well, everything. 

I tried the cards again:

Lots of swords --

Running with swords, piercing, pinning. 

Kinetic swords fastened to the 

Entropic mechanism of the universe. 

There were cups, too:

Cups in the future, cups of the future. 

Nearby and in the sky. 

Cups of Home. 

The key to prophecy presupposes some sort of lock --

Between now and then, and there. 

Keeping time in rooms 

With doors only and no windows...

And beds in the corners.