Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Death Within The Dream


Dreaming,
dreams of death, you really shan't.
English is not the spoken tounge,
in every head.

Even if each thought,
that I am taught, I soon forget.
Do you, the other side,
I go at will, when deep in sleep.

There are often better things,
for me to do to you.
Than to watch you hidden, waiting, come.
Pulling back,
the mist, you are often sleeping in.

I see the whirlpool's eye,
shooting out,
all the light, that I put in.
The cup is half empty, never full.
Darker is this moon, and it is.

I must see it,
laying on it's lighter side.
Open when I come.
And closing shut, as I look back.
Dreaming,
dreams within,
when death is all you have.

Submitted: Friday, April 26, 2013
Edited: Saturday, April 27, 2013

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