Slowly tears of blood she starts to weep;
And into a troubled dream she begins to seep.
Her hair strangling her as she twists and turns,
And she starts to cry out; “it burns! It burns!”
No physical pain, for a thing of the mind.
The sleep she escapes, leaving the dream behind.
Every night, the nightmare comes back,
And the burning fire returns to attack.
Her eyes swell with tears,
As she welcomes her fears,
To the dream that never ends.
YOU ARE READING
The Ghosts of my past.
PoetryLiterally, the ghosts of my past. My pain and such. Poetry from 2008-2009.
