Writing : The place that I call Home

Sometimes I dream of dark and hollow lands

in the hours between dusk and dawn

and of a house I once abandoned

in the company of spiders

and of a beast,

tall and green,

lurking in the shadows

of that lonely house.

I thrash and writhe against my sheets

as it crawls towards me

with snarled teeth and hooked claws,

a frightful sight indeed.

So I run,

usually,

until my lungs explode and choke me.

But the ground never moves beneath me.

And the wicked beast always captures me

in it’s vice-like grip

and drags me to the sea

and drowns me in a whirl of memories.

But now that I am in my summer

these visions do not startle me

or wake me from my slumber.

Now I can lie and wave as those glimpses of a life pass by me,

fixed in time,

like grains of sand in an antique watch.

And now I can confront that beast

and pet it on the head,

for it can be so placid

on a leash

left to its own devices.

It is a pitiful sight,

unarmed and drooling,

peering through the window of my dreams.

But sometimes I let my dreams ensnare me

and for a moment we become one:

the darkness, beast and me.

But in my waking

I know that we will never be

together as one.

Because they will not consume me

and I will not drown in that lonely sea

for I have already conquered these dark and hollow lands.

Writing