Eerily Peculiar
No, that was no dream, not by any
stretch of your night-time imagination
though you can readily recall minute details
and remember the emotions you felt of fear
and denial and hopelessness enough to make
you want to seek out death. Yet this was not
your nightmare, you know. Yours are all
remembered in their own peculiar details
and they tend at this stage in your life to be
of a more assured, placid variety, truly dreams.
Whose dread thoughts then intruded on your
sleep or put another way whose misery did your
subconscious seek to ease and burden you
with the suffering of some unknown soul?
Those details that echoed through your waking
mind as acute as when you felt them in that
desperate nightmare are ample proof that
the grief was purloined, not yours at all
yet even knowing that to be the truth what
you experienced in your state of sleep while
unaware of having unbidden intruded on some
poor soul's has done nothing to placate the
stirring of deep-seated sorrow that coursed
through your veins and stopped your heart.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Labels:
Poetry
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