When I was young,
I once had a nightmare,
A dream of the most surreal kind,
Was it some ghost?
A bogeyman?
Nothing so mundane I’m afraid,
It was an orb floating in my room,
A ball of yarn unravelling,
With the consistency of intestines,
Of offal,
Crimson weeping from it,

An alien gurgling emanated from it,
Mocking my own heartbeat,
I was struck dumb by it,
Unable to move,
Bloodshot eyes fixated,
Until the yarn was almost unwound,
But then I awoke,
So what did it mean?
I’ve never sussed it out,
I’m not closer to understanding,
I fear I never will.

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Comments
  1. shauna says:

    I had crocheted butterflies on my bedroom curtains when I was little that my grandmother had made. At night I was terrified of them; my mother wound up taking them down because even though I knew during the day what they were, I woke up screaming at night! So I find this poem relatable!

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