They come behind the scene
through convoluted images,
speaking truths in drones only.

Silent, they crawl snake-wise
into realities of honey-coated
fantasies and doom-related
dreads and disasters.

Armed to the eyes,
visions fret in chatters of the
aged, nibbling at frozen flesh
of nasalized sequences.

Dreams run temperatures
when like snow-capped
peaks, transmontane fumes
rise beyond wailing degrees.

Aches round off discourses –
non compos mentis –

among celebrated whims of
a wild, wild night.