08 September, 2012


When somehow a
Dream can use its
Sticky, slimy tentacles
And wrap them securely
Around your ankles,
Dragging you under
The surface of
The waking world.
Even when you
Know you are
Dreaming, these arms-
Your arms, really-
Won't release you,
And inject you with
Poison to make you
Forget. You can try
To fight, but the
Weight of the water
Slows you down, and
This creature was born
In the water. How
Can you hope to
Fight him? His arms
Are too long, too
Strong. His will is
The same. Your lungs
Scream for air: but
Isn't it nice here,
Drifting along with
The current, watching
Little fish as they
Dart among the coral?
Is it not pleasant,
Being weightless,
Hair floating about
Like an aura of
Peace? Of calm?
As I fall deeper,
And light becomes scarce,
The pressure weighs on
My eyelids, beckoning,
Begging me to stay...
I can barely feel the
Tentacles now, and
All I think of is
How tranquil this is...