1,327

You once had a dream that I died.
Stabbed, you said,
an absurd number of times,
like 1,327, or something.
What did it mean?
Maybe: a lich of fear long dead,
a red needle threading my heart,
my own shard-sliced hands.
Or maybe just a deus ex machina,
a wish fulfillment of the narrative.
In short, it could have meant
pretty much anything.

You once had a dream that a curtain fell.
You woke with tears in your eyes.
What did it mean?
The beginning of the end.
There are no metaphors for death.
Only an empty audience, a bitter encore.
And somewhere in the distance you are bleeding out
from 1,327 flesh wounds.