To Dream Grey

To Dream Grey

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Took a second look at this poem, at all my poems. I think it's fair to say I've come a long way. The need to be better has become a necessity. I am greedy. This dissatisfaction forced me to grow.



To dream


How many little pinpricks of light does it take to cut through the darkness?


For it to bleed its opposite?


For it to collapse in on itself


A tree trunk old


Tasting the dirt it fed upon


Opening up its pores


Its many leaves,




Skin in patches, wallpaper, peeling


Eventually, the bugs find their way into the higher reaches of the tree


And the reaching branches lose their strength


Wrinkled like the bodies of older men


Pitifully empty of vigour


The insides, warm, worn-in, tender


For the worms to dig through


For the soil to grow


For the death to live, thrive


I see many of them as I hike in their open graves


As I balance on their brother’s bodies








Pretending they can hear me




Eventually, each one following each other


 Drop like hatchets


The flies that buzz around their feet


Under their toenails


The little insects crawling out of their wet throats


Their empty mouths


How many pinpricks of black does it take


For the sun not to rise tomorrow?


For it to fall on its steady climb


Sliding down the side of a mountain


For it to roll off the tongues of men


Into the sewer grates


For the black chess pieces to devour the white


So I can see


What blind men dream of


To hear the sounds of form and shape flake off my fingertips


For the world to fall into a deep sleep


And dream of black


In this sea of white light


The city shimmering on a vinyl horizon


Capsizing itself in the deepest of crevices


The cracks on the face of the earth


The smile lines


A graveyard of life


Dying out like a candlewick


Moths are not attracted to flame


It is the darkness that surrounds them


That brings butterflies like me


Closer to death


I watch the moths, sheep


Gather around it, circling like goldfish


Chasing it, catching colour


Looking, searching with their dumb stage lit eyes


Pulling myself out of a black hole


Sinking into the night


Calling myself brighter than them


And the chess pieces wander a board of checkered squares


And the hands intend to tangle themselves in a river of fingers


And the heart flutters and picks at its ruffled feathers in the ribcage


And God watches as the devils of treble clefs


Dance on sheet music


And my fingers fill the holes of my clarinet


Playing in the darkroom


With the lights off


To dream


And eventually


I suppose I will be so rusty that I won’t make but a sound


But the black wood of the clarinet


Made from the torso of trees


Tell that


Many pinpricks like me


Have stabbed out the eyes of bodies of light


You cannot fault me


Stars line the arch of my back


You can connect each dot through the stray fingers that have touched them


Through the good and evil that light and dark could never hope to be


The hands of the clock


Bent over backwards into overtures of saxophones brass


The concrete caverns that held together the orchestra of one fist


The stretch of space like a cats cradle in the sable eyed night


The worms slither through the dirt


And I cannot help but wonder


To dream


To be black and white


In a grey, grey, world


The pencil lead I have smeared against my writing hand


 The branches my fingers tangle with


The buildings that line the streets where rain shatters into memorial


Where God shatters into memorial


Where dream becomes memorial


And prayer becomes silence


And silence becomes hate


And hate becomes God


Where God has become so ample


The brightest red apple


The nail of the cross


I once devoured bibles


As if the blood of Christ could wet my parched throat


Praying with my gravelly voice


Until my buried speech would find its way out of the ground


From between my crooked teeth


And shape, and sound, and light cascade


As the pavement trails on like sentences over the dirt


Another hidden passage in the word of God


Slithering snakes like the laces of shoes under the foot of man


And hate flows through the veins of my mortal enemies


Cold and white


And the darkness strays from it


And I hide in the forest


And they find me, still


To dream together with


God bruises his knees begging for forgiveness


And I still


Am just another shade of grey


One day in the cemetery


The dirt and grit will come up to reach me


To line my skin and skin my lines like a poem


And my roots will coil around ringed fingers of the tallest trees


And be but a pinprick


In the gravel of an uprooted sky


Collapsing inwards


Tasting what fed upon me


Psychedelic elegies bellowing under umbrella of melodies


Swallowing my words whole


And leaving behind my unnecessary, emotional, dreams


Buried along with me


With the tree trunks, like pinpricked patchwork


In the dirt




Neither here nor there


Neither left nor right


Neither black nor white


Where the cloud ballets into a marooned sun


Where the hairs on my head iridescently pestilential beckon on requiem


Until the skin folds in on itself an old book


Until the body sags like loose garments in the breeze


And I wear my own corpse, stiff, tight


Over the bones


Until my baroque bouquet of oceans grey


Parade in cadence séance of samsara volume’s polymerization


Swallowing me whole and spitting out


The next flower


So full of colour


So bright, a neon sign from God


Asking for death’s hand


Timelessness along with that which doesn’t know time yet, young


For the first of many


Or my one final dance


In this onyx monochrome stygian, porcelain, dream


A rabid dog


I slay those make me the harmony


To someone else’s melody


My hands carved ivory obsidian of papercuts and bandages


Stringing together weather-beaten sentences stitched into the skin




I was born to balance on the tipping point


The slope of the mountain


The tip of the needle


The edge of the knife


Straddling the fine line of a verse


Crossing the frayed border of a page


The pinpricks of ink


Raining pavements of blue on me


Licking flecks of stars from the mop of my face


© 2021 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
I feel like my poems in the last few weeks weren't well done honestly. My last good poem was probably Metronome, but I haven't been able to write something like it. I took my frustrations out on this.

Took a second look at this poem, at all my poems. I think it's fair to say I've come a long way. The need to be better has become a necessity. I am greedy. This dissatisfaction forced me to grow.

Being so necessary, it is both a curse and a blessing. I have improved. But I will never be happy with what I have. Perfectionism is impossible. And yet I still write. Maybe this feeling is what made me the poet I am. And maybe, it took away what happiness may come with improving.

I am finally happy with this one poem. Like I have been happy with others. When you write so much that isn't perfect, these few poems I hesitate to dislike, are paramount. They are what keep me writing, improving, and are my light, and create my darkness. Maybe that's why my work is often so sad, so bitter.

I'm addicted to the rush, and the pain of failure pushes me higher.

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.

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Added on May 28, 2021
Last Updated on June 4, 2021
Tags: to, dream


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Burlington, Halton, Canada

Born in 1997, I enjoy writing poetry and short stories. I often hike, bike, play tennis in the summer. In the winter, I snowboard. Spoken word poet, several time finalist for local poetry slams, an.. more..