To Dawn by Ian Bailey
- Eidolon Magazine
- Mar 4
- 1 min read
The PTSD, he
Heads like a herald
To dawn his new clothes
In the iridescence
Of a pit
Edged into me
Like a hook
Caught in the gills
Of a fish
I am torn into
A new coat, a pair of jeans
And with the new clothes, he’s
Like a pharaoh
In my skin
My skin’s a pharaoh’s
When it’s on him
My head is filled with glory
Shillingless
Like a fountain
Where no one wishes
My mouth is music
Pouring out
Onto him
Unto PTSD
Him now soaked
From the oil of my skin
From the water in the fountain
And the music from my mouth
He’s soaked, like a child
In a church
Till he is
Sitting in the pulpit
Hearing my words
And I live for the day
The day I’ll dawn a new skin
And I'll walk like Napoleon
Stomping around him
And I live for the day
The day I’ll conquer I
And dawn new clothes, leather hides
till I shed his skin awry