When asked to describe my dreams,
To understand my nightly process,
I flip a coin,
To judge which dreamland I last inhabited,
The misty nirvana of colour and vividity,
Or the dread hellscape,

The latter often wins,
Indeed it is the more trod upon,
A grey and harsh wasteland,
With gargantuan twisted spires of charcoal,
Echoes of an inferno,
A haven of abominations,

A dappled waste by any other measure,
The wind is a sad accordion,
Piercing cries always from great distance,
Aural mirages,
A perennial eclipse,
The crying stars are merely wisps,

Here I find my monsters,
Here I breed their evil,
Unfathomable muses that they are,
My quill is my baton to subdue them,
Their horror becomes my ink,
To carve my art into parchment,

Sometimes I bring the things back…

When I awake,
I gaze glossy-eyed out of my window,
As I tell my querier,
And I see a similar hellscape,
Replete with misery,
But perhaps more.

Comments
  1. Fantastic poetry! Loved the lines, “the wind is a sad accordion…my quill is my baton.” A powerful piece. Well done. Bravo!! 😊

  2. Fall Fraust says:

    Love this, each line like a little treat upon the tongue.

  3. Shruba says:

    I really like reading your poems but what I find most fascinating are the small drawings attached below each of them.

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