If memory
Stirs something real
Then why are ills
Called nightmares
Like our drowsy plays
Merely finished
By the art of hell
Long endured?

This angry dream
Bearing wails
Before each scene
Being written
Can find its thread
Weaving horrors
Through nostalgic days
Soon evoked

In plotted lines
Barely heard
Or spoken scripts
Over screaming
Which happens still
Upon waking
Seeing those long past
Live again,

Near empty hearths
Burning flames
From ghostly sparks
They ignited
With snow outside
Falling gently
Bringing embers
Besides frozen winds

When holidays fade
Holding pens
Not knowing how time
Becomes garland
Still stringed along stairs
Lighting pathways
Climbing up towards rooms
Never there

For hope
Since desperate reprieve
Arrives while pain
Offers stories
But conjuring home
Not so different
When sick as a dog
Losing sleep.

• J. Pigno