Sometimes I dream of them, and see,
a blood soaked young girl’s face—
painted like a weeping clown in blood,
whose joy had left no trace.
Just weathered lines etched in by time,
spread like the twisted limbs of pines.
His conscience was the monster
called the Beast under his bed.
And when he finally shut his eyes,
the gun shot rang out in his head.
And half a yell—and half a shout—
when his beloved just blinked out.
Like the lighthouse to the shore,
of the land we call Dreamworld.
A swan song’s silence filled the room,
creatures on the paper made their
passage through the gloom;
a young girl’s ghost appeared.
Above the bed, and all she said:
And the ghost went in my head.
Remember me? she said. “Do you?”
It’s true the way, that day she died,
when Death shut down the neon ride.
She walked through the iron gates,
To find an endless sun-bathed day,
Where angels sing and children play.
And when I die, if I pass through,
The gate into the Dreamworld too—
If you see me in your dreams,
I’m looking at you too.
The world turns sideways in a dream,
And silent in your bed you see—
Endless valleys, golden streams;
and those long dead lay on the hill—
as you on your pillow still.
Seraphim in rows walk by,
barefoot on the rich green grass
under a milk-white sky;
yet Tomorrow is on time.
You leave the Dreamworld for a time,
until you’re trapped inside.
No need for worry, or for sorrow,
you will get that last Tomorrow.
The stalker dressed in black called death,
plays with us all as though it’s chess.
And we play death all of our lives,
and always lose the game.
Queens and bishops, knights and pawns,
vanish as the game goes on;
the King retreats, the day is saved,
and that is how our lives is played.
We are the Kings, we are the Queens;
moved around by Death.
We cannot save our pieces from
the stalker dressed in black.
Once a pawn is taken not a thing will bring it back.
And when they do, the pieces fall,
until the stalker has them all,
and the devil says Checkmate—
one last chance for one last dance,
with no game left to play—
they dance between the inkblots on
my tawdry ballad’s page.
A troupe of dancers with their lutes,
their pirouettes and magic flutes,
sing for the moment’s sake.
Hand in hand—their saraband,
was but a sad parade.
Their merry smiles, their wills,
a while,
with time begin to fade.
Yet it remains, the same malaise;
mourning the ghosts of yesterday.
brandon the writer | author & staff writer for sir swag 