wake up to this

Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon
and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing,
and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing,
because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing.


Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that’s haunted.
-there’s no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself;
its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race;
now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes. […]

Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon
and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing,
and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing,
because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing.

Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that's haunted.
-there's no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself;
its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race;
now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes.

Wake up to the racket of a dozen crows ready to roost,
(there’s a murder causing hell over your roof, 
ready to rain away any chance of a parade
if you don’t claim your higher ground.)

Wake up to the panic of there’s no time left on the clock.
the storm is here, and the flock has found their cuckoo nest.
ready or not, you better fly and finally soar like the rest,
so take heart, steel your mind, and summon old courage
and forget the crutches – they’re only handicaps on a brick road.

Wake up to the alarm of a dozen years dreaming,
so encumbered by your heavy coat of slumber -
you fight familiar demons masquerading as nightmares,
discouraging you from leaving a house now flooding,
making mute this place you called home
where now only the crows sit and the water waits.

Wake up to find Dorothy had bailed from this merry-go-round
left a note saying you weren’t ready this go around –
that the storm is here and you’re still struggling with the baggage.
still sluggish from a longish slumber,
yet to comprehend the emergency of sobriety.

Wake up to the sound of sirens singing the murder song
and you cursing out your best swan song -
“the ship is sinking – abandon all ye sleeping, make out for land!
No time for weeping, break past the line of constant return.
This time, wake up for real!"

M. L. Michael
04/30/12

About…

By April of 2012 I had enough with the cycle of taking more and more pain medicine until it eventually unraveled into a destructive downwards spiral. As soon as I noticed this happening I told my pain management doctor and we decided I should go to a 30 day rehab clinic right away.

This poem was written in the middle of that night from a dream that woke me up. In a mere six hours or so after this was written I was being driven by my parents to the clinic.

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