Last night, a dagger slept beneath my tongue.
It whispered prophecy— or maybe it was memory.

The blade dreamt of me.
Called me by names I buried.
Each edge a phrase I once believed,
Now rusted in the shape of confession.

In dreams, the dagger speaks.
It tells the truth in symbols
and lies in perfect grammar.

Let the blade speak.
Let the metal tongue move.
If it cuts,
then let it carve meaning.
If it lies,
then let it sound holy.

I pulled it from the mouth of sleep,
Still warm with secrets.
It sang in bloodless dialect—
A language born to never wake.

Habla, cuchillo sagrado.
Rómpeme con lo que sabes.
Hazme profeta del sueño roto.

Speak, dagger—
Unseal the silence.
Cut my tongue into gospel.
Let my ruin become your sermon.

And when I woke,
the dagger was gone.
But my mouth remembered
every word it never said.

The Dagger that Speaks in Dreams

I make albums for fictional bands with assistance of AI tools.

The Dagger that Speaks in Dreams

Joel Leonard