The Nightmare

Twisted pictures haunt your dreams,
Nothing being what it seems,
All’s too easy to predict
Until that moment when it hits
That something there is just not right
And your body convulses in the night,
Shocked at what its mind created,
The images never anticipated.

Sights and sounds spring from the darkness,
The haunted, writhing, twisted darkness
That with your mind is interwoven,
Until you scream and you’re awoken
To find you had not screamed at all,
No rotting heads, no fatal fall,
No house of hidden passageways,
No woods, ditches or shallow graves.

Just you, alone, in the dark, in bed,
And terrifying spectres still fresh in your head,
Reduced to a shaking, frightened child,
Afraid of the dark and the big and the wild.
You won’t go back to sleep lest you see it again,
The vivid, grotesque, horrible, misshapen,
That must symbolise evidence of some guilt;
In this prison of conscience there’s no escape built.


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