Friday, February 24, 2012

The Riddle of a Travelling Salesman

I closed tight my eyes
as the night drowned the skies,
and so strangely was I questioned
a riddle of a man

He reached in his coat,
past a golden lapelle,
and then he whispered:
Dreams to sell.

You hear me child?
Well, I'll say it again:
Dreams to sell,
dreams to sell...

I breathed out a breath
and then drew one back in,
then standing my ground,
I question-backed him:

But do you trade?
For I've some, too;
They're dark and tell
my private hell--

And open eyes,
my only shield,
need to rest a while.

I'll sell them cheap,
I'll give them free--
My bed waits like a trap for me...

These winding dreams
that haunt my sleep--
If you can take them,
set me free.

But the man raised a finger
as old as the earth
to my trembling lips,
and wished them be still.

Then he laughed out a song,
and it danced off his tongue--
I knew it well
when I was young

As its melody haunted
up my xylophone spine,
the memories taunted
like the rattles of chains--
tarnished silver linings
biting in the din
of their opening
and shutting teeth.

It was the corners who'd always sung it before,
I knew it for sure--
Though the corners lit dim

And my clouds were for storms,
and my dreams were for death;
my seas were for drowning,
and my prison: my bed.

Well, I looked at the man
with the sky in his beard,
and the sands in his eyes--
Then he whispered to me:

Look to the stars, they'll show you the way.

With a whirlwind of sand
and a far away laugh,
and the tick of hand--

He riddled, Goodnight.

And the sun bade goodmorning,
as a beckoning chime--
no, a torturous ring--
pulled me safe from that land--

But the riddle still stands
in the night's shifting sands;
And I've still so many
a dream to sell.