wb :

In my dreams

people die
when the fires fly
and when the morning arches overhead
we count the dead

they walk to my table and point at me
accusingly
they stand behind the piles of paper
that the people who walk and waver
leave before me as an offering
"hear me," as though the people say,
"and take the entrails of the world,
and scry into their black lines, curled
into a thousand troubles furled
and stapled;"
"and tell us, oracle, what you forsee,
what omens in the bleached sheets
what omens in the printed sheets
and guide us, sage, the blind, we;"
and still the dead point at me.

In my nightmares I am one of them

looking onwards at eventuality
sighing as a million choices
flows into the echoes
of a million voices
pointing not at he who grasps the print
but behind him, for he is blind

so my end is wrapped in those same sheets
noted, briefly
perhaps griefedly
and when the papers have conferred
then interred

no more to worry of those others
that have passed by
of those that hurt and hounded
and growled and pounded
no more to worry of those that cared
of those with their souls bared
no more to worry

So when I wake, I
am glad that I am only
a butterfly