Is It Poetry
Death Within The Dream
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.
the mist, you are often sleeping in.
I see the whirlpool's eye,
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.
when death is all you have.
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