I dreamed that I died.
Though it wasn't that dramatic.
It wasn't normal,
But it felt normal.
The world slowly sapped of color,
Already black and white.
A crowded room, tight on the shoulders
But still too big.
Too big to pull across,
Through the viscous red mass
Clouding my chest
Spreading too far to believe
It poured from a chasm in my throat,
Ripped wide by something
Soft, subtle. Graceful
As a butterfly gliding like an arrow.
Every time I reached, my arm leadened.
Every time I cried, the tear stuck like a chain.
Every time I wished it was a dream
The stupor pulled me closer.
When I woke all I desired was to drink a little water.
YOU ARE READING
Blood As My Ink
PoesiaEmotions, beliefs, dreams, and imagination run through the body. Like ink they flow through the vein and, every now and then, it decides to run out.
