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His thoughts are leaning
Towards the line encircling
CAROLE KOHANIM
That which one calls consciousness.
He swims in the valleys
Covered with iced trees.
He is lost in the mysterious cave.
There, in the world of dreams he lives
In a house without mirrors.
At each door, each step, each corridor
Is standing a dying spirit.
The hand laughs in its blood.
I look for a door of escape
I pull the hand. There a door. I knock.
It opens. I cover my face.
It's late.
...
It's too
Late. In the blackness he
is
floating.
My lover my lover
The thinker, ever thinking.
This story is not true.
It's a dream, not reality.
I
think
it sounds very lovely
in
French.
So
does the Messenger. He
read it to me and it seemed like a lullaby that the ocean waves were
whWpering to my hot and
thirsty
mind. But when I learned what
it meant it re.ally scared me.
I remember once before when Melanie spoke of a vision - the
two of us were sitting around in a dark room with some friends.
Melanie started telling about this huge clock that kept ticking tick–
ing ticking. Some pale gloves kept pushing the clock's hour hand
closer to midnight. Then it struck and a cat jumped out and tore
apart a rat that was sitting on top of the number twelve.
Sometimes I do not understand Melanie and wonder
if
she's
alright. I don't
think
I
will
show this poem to my Doctor.
May the fourteenth
I do not know what to
think
about
this
poem. I do not know
what Melanie is trying to tell me. And today I am even more
confused. Michelle came again today and we went for another walk
in
the Hospital garden. When I saw Janet I turned around and
made sure I avoided her.
