This dream had sharper edges,
It sliced, nicked and burned,
Jarringly lucid, unmistakably direct,
Inflicting raw scars of lessons learned,
Demanding wakeful pledges.

Pointing scaly talons at the soul,
Death-masked faces, cloaked in gloom,
Cackled in reedy, screechy voices,
Warning against entering the room,
Of indulgent distractions; the only goal.

Morning’s pledge of mended ways,
Fleetingly burdened a tense brow;
Scattering, shattering as the body rose.
Trampled over, discarded, dormant for now,
Glinting heads of Hydra, in menacing arrays.

© Pragya

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