Smolder

The rasp of a beetle against a window glass
Turned the sleeper in his fitful dream
The night was heavy as honey; thick as sorghum
And sooty syrup filled his lungs with charcoal

The stomach seethes with eager embers
When every breath is a fan to the flame
Skin hangs clammy cool against bones
The sickly boiled flesh is wrung to drain

Flame burns in the whiskey forge below
The sleeper groans in crushing pains
Someone is stacking stones on his mortal form
He lies pinned in the agony of suffocation

A ship is lost at sea in still doldrums
No wind stirs to fill her ghostly sails
She sits frozen as dark-finned shadows circle
Patience feeds the faceless scavengers

The dragging of chains across a wooden floor
Precedes the sliding bolt of a mammoth door
The sleeper struggles with his fear of death
Listening, he hears the draw of raspy breath

A ragged inhale brings rattles but no relief
The exhale is not his; it comes from somewhere below
Beads of sweat pour to his soaking pillow
To his terror he realizes the sound of bellows

A flash of flame envelops the dreamer
His eyes burst open in yellow light
A solitary bulb hangs from the ceiling
Sixty watts of hell in a sultry summer night