Dream Not
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To scrape the walls,
My dungeons, deep ...
Craft endless hells,
Through venal sleep.
Cold, dark slumber,
Conception's bane ...
My bleak remorse,
The wrongs, inane.
Attainment's art,
Bartered for bliss ...
And tasting, deep,
The demon's kiss.
A thousand deaths,
Each torpid dream,
Yet, without a face ...
I can. Not. Scream.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "The I Of The Storm" Poetry Contest, Maureen McGreavy, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2018
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