The crust of ancient time

The crust of ancient time On my eyelids, Heavy with the words of a forgotten language. I wrap myself in a quilted blanket but the sutures are threads of teeth, Buried deep, rooted in rotten soil. The surface is just a mirror, though, It is ice with faces and names Read in reverse. A single structure of surreal surrender. Truly it is globular with freedom: I cannot speak for I am free And the wires have been cut And the wall has been made Obsolete.