The Writer Part 3: The night


Dream a little dream of me
Of a red room

Bursting at its seams

Spilling over its doom


It’s an average day

By the Hudson

Only it doesn’t end the average way

After endless conversations


She walks into the house

Kids asleep upstairs

She swallows away her petulant pout

And waits for parents who don’t care

At length the sleep comes alive

She hears noises she can’t see

She doesn’t quite know it yet

But she is dreaming a dream of me

She knows not

Where the blood comes from
For it’s just the pain that’s searing hot
Of the red that the walls have worn

It’s not often you wish that night
Takes away your breath
Not every day your soul’s fright
Makes you hope for death
Dream a little dream of me
I will make you fall to depths of hell
and set you free

One thought on “The Writer Part 3: The night

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