I realised I haven't written about nightmares in a while. I vaguely remember writing something with similar ideas, although rather obviously, as it was written a few years ago, it was lacking an undercurrent; of what I don't quite know. So I went through my threads looking for the original if you like, and I can't seem to find it. Looks like I may have written it in a nightmare and never woke up.

What there was has now gone,
thrown away as the foam on a wave
in the suburbs of the hurricane.
Storm petrels in their thousands
arrive too late to warn,
too late to save.

Lying in the corner of a nightmare,
a dark room with dripping walls
where the wallpaper droops
and the colours run into each other
and create a deeper shade of black.
I think there’s a monster after me
but I’ve yet to see it.
It may just be you,
or what once was you,
or perhaps what you are inside yourself,
a devourer of my sins
and of my

And I don’t wake up,
I keep on dreaming
and the horror portends to show its face
and tear at my muscles
but it never comes around the corner
it so often threatens to.
There is just an inky blackness
seeping from my eyelids
and vanishing within itself.

There are spiders,
emerging from beneath the bed,
of which I barely recognise as my own,
and they scuttle towards me,
thousands of them,
millions of legs,
a silent stampede of terror
and of adrenalin.

Will I wake now a mortal fear has surfaced?
Or will I forever bask in the glory of my terminus?

The indiscernible patterns on the wall
form into something more recognisable.
A face, perhaps yours,
perhaps mine or a stranger’s,
looking at me and nothing more.
I cannot describe it as staring,
nor mocking nor pitying.
There is just a face,
and there it looks.

Maybe it spoke a word or two,
but if it did
it was the voice of an endless corridor
echoing into a barely-breathed whisper
when it reaches my ears.
The sound of a light year,
a single electron breaking the tympanum,
and I can hear it.
The voice cries.

I wake up sweating and you’re asleep,
dreaming, mumbling, crying.
I find a mirror in the bathroom
in the darkness of the real,
and a love bite sits on my neck,
and in it lies the face of the wall,
the voice of the corridor,
waking into another nightmare;
it cries louder now.
That was truely a nightmare to read. Now I'm terrorfied to go to bed now, that was really well written Keep on Writing
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