Goblin dreams are green, of course,
and sometimes earthen red.
They scatter crude as folly, each
a lively joke, prodded along
its crude night path
with the sharp end of a stick.
When goblins wake, they rub their eyes
like you and me, those gruesome eyes
of pebble coal, sockets inflamed and raw
and they recall the depth of dream
as light as moth, antennae searching
with perfectly dissected fuzz,
brutality a daytime waking glimmer
hummed away by goblin thoughts
of wicked sleep to come.
September 6, 2010