poetry

Cursed

Dreams are ghosts
travelling in the
void inside
soft bodies.

It’s our own
way of describing them
that can
cripple us,
or rustle
potent emotions.

When I lie (in bed)
tonight, I see the
skin of the ceiling shift.
It grasps
its shoulders
like a naked
woman waking
in the
early morning. She
drags her head
out of the dreams,
and smudges the
ruffles of hair and blanket.

Tonight my mind
seduces me. I can
think of
how soft her satin
will taste.
I am
Ripped
out of it, with a
tight-lightning
Bitchslap. A moist
stale breath
clouds my heads
burns my senses.

My labrador
scrubs my face
with its tongue and
torturous eyes. The
dream has been
raped.

and I stagger
out of the bed,

naked and late.

PhilosopherPoet

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