Succubus sans the happy ending.
She hovers on my headboard.
Hair wild and shoe polish black.
At night she hovers there...
screaming her deranged and distorted thoughts
into my subconscious,
Her wrecked and ravaged squalls are silent;
yet they worm their way in to my dreams.
The twisted wreckage,
people I never murdered,
people in my past who still cause damage
she knows them all.
Her banshee wails
silently worming their ways into my dreams.
dream maggots...
that drip from her drooling misshapen mouth,
into my ears,
into my brain,
where they are brought to life as dreams.
She hovers dressed in tatters,
these contagious deranged maggots dripping from her mouth
into my brain..
where they are interpreted as pure,
raw,
experience.
As far as the mind knows
we actually do live out our dreams as reality.
I have had happier thoughts than that.
Where is that bottle of wine?
The good one....
poem by Brevet Wilson
Added by Poetry Lover
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