Stumbling, twirling through the night,
this whirlpool of amphibious dreams,
has me caught in its loop - tight,
like a bug
on the windscreen
of the sandman’s ride.
Through sweat drizzled skin
my whimpering heart paces,
as I keep waking - screaming,
All these different scenes,
uniquely distinct themes,
but always one constant - That face.
Always the last thing I see before I wake,
tears on my face forming a tremulous stream.
And worse.
When I wake
her eyes still burn.
Deep in my mind I see them,
combing through my memory room.
My store cupboard of old stories,
where fears and hopes loom
like giant monoliths to some ancient god.
I see her wondering through the tombs,
where old loves, past friendships,
dead stories and more
are kept under lock and key.
Stored for posterity.
I haven't seen her in quite some time.
The one whose name
shouldn't ever be whispered,
for she whisks away your creativity,
makes your imagination
pull on its shoes and flee.
Talks inspiration into visiting other people's dreams.
Leaving you asleep in a dead seabed.
A salt desert, assaulting the thoughts
that run dry through your head.
Left dying. Empty. Dead.
Just beware If you see that stare,
glaring at you through swirly dream air,
look away as quick as you can,
don't pay attention,
she only survives on fear.
Thanks for reading
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