Strange. I've travelled this road before.
Perhaps it was a dream, or part of a
dream. The ones' where you'd wake up
and imagine it had some significance,
some relevance
But somehow its impermanence escapes
the asylum of your mind much like a
wisp of smoke that fades away from a
(candle) flame, and you wake up wondering
if it was a memory, or a part thereof
Though snippets remain, breadcrumbs
of a dreamscape that you've strayed upon,
or a recollection that you've chanced upon,
or a damnation that you've gazed upon -
there, upon that hill, where demented
souls writhe in an infernal agony,
there, upon that hill, where eternal
salvation is rent asunder,
to wither away, like a flower (for lack
of sunlight)
there, where scathed soil and scarred
stone sprout deadened timber and
blackened branch
there, where crow gathers like a mourner
draped in death
there, where crow feasts upon charred
corpse and sightless socket, pecking
always pecking, and cawing, always
cawing, its sinister eyes lurking,
questioning, knowing
It seems almost unfair, almost criminal
that fate would have me heave that
hated cross, damned and despised,
lumbering up that splintered slope
only to fall
only to fail
there, upon that hill
where nightmare survives
where memory strives
where damnation thrives
Perhaps it was a dream
or
My Requiem To A Dream
🚶♂️
©dead_poet
D