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
Leave a comment
No comments yet.
Leave a Reply