Butoh artist, source unattributable
in the moors of your mind
where lurk the moles of souls unkind
spying out your darkest dreams
amid the hum of silent screams
awakened hip deep in the mud
as chest-high waters rise in flood
you struggle but it pulls you down
in a boat, up drifts a blood-soaked clown
his hand grips a shiny new bone-saw
his other hand, a twin-hooked claw
your only hope; that you’re still dreaming
but wouldn’t you waken from your own screaming?
