A Bad Dream
Sunny, sultry afternoon; a playing breeze tosses my hair.
Eyes...I feel eyes and glance upwards;
By the water well, the Grim Reaper and he is filling the well from a large vessel with,
his eyes on me.
Setting down the vessel, a bony protrusion waving towards me, slowly, ever so slowly…come, it beckons.
NO! I won’t; I know you.
Come, white digit waving…ever waving but,
I couldn’t move; felt glued to those porch steps.
One step closer, no face, black hooded cowl opening
Is blocked by that blasted scythe he’s picked up.
What is he going to do?
My God! I can’t move!
White digit wave and another step closer…
I’m frozen in place;
helpless to escape him.
Digit growing larger as silence closes in;
He cannot, will not take me today,
I resolve to escape.
I won’t go, he’s stopped.
Digit grows into five, a wave and I shake, no.
Digit points to the well…
he wants me to go and look…
he’ll shove me in or slice off my head with that scythe…
NO!
I struggle frantically to stand and run…
I can’t…keep struggling…keep on struggling…
I’ve got to get away!
He comes closer…NO!
Another step, NO!
Too close now, RUN!
Awakening, cold sweat as bony digit touches my arm…
My God…
Jerk to a white-sheet, sit up…
Whew, it was only a dream.
Revised 2-29-19
Entered contest:"Dance of Death Poetry Contest”;
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
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