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The voice of a cold stream flowing calls me and dark skies float in my mind.  A

fallen blanket on the floor of my room where I lay on my bed waiting, for

the night to reveal images.  I am full of dead voices whispering.  Shapes, wispy
 
no form reaching out. The calmness beckons me.  I hesitate, then let go.

Death so meaningless.  Headstones, wet with trembling soft tears.  Time past

is eternally present in my dream.  The images drifting disturb the dust of time.

I fall through the twilight gates of dreams and all is stillness.  Shadows hover 

in silence.  My dream self whirls in the quiet breeze of forever solitude. I am
 
crying and searching for something unseen.


The vine of life grasps and clings to me, the fingers of green curling.  Weeping

shadows of death entwining my soul.  Oh, listen to the loud lamenting, so
 
deafening.Leaves murmur, birds chirp and my heart quivers. I stand at a tomb.

Strokes of pain, memories stabbing.  I am lost in this dream.  Then. dawn

breaks and my dream shatters in a million pieces floating away and I am left

with an open wound bleeding in the sunlight.


__________________________
April 19, 2015  (Repost)


Poetry/Narrative/The Twilight Gate of Dreams
Copyright Protected, ID 15-1219-761-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written under Pseudonym.


Submitted to Strand Choice 7
Brian Strand

Second Place

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