Despite the jade embedded upon his face,
it wasn’t him, who induced my fear.
Perhaps he wore the death mask of Pakal,
ruler of Palenque? And struggling to defeat him,
I retraced my steps to awareness.
It feels strange to wake up, escaping a dream’s power
to deceive, and unlike Pakal’s Temple of Inscriptions
there’s no more mystery, only certainty.
I know exactly what entombs me:
it was encrypted within the dream.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tess Joyce
would be pleased to hear from you.