Strange dreams, wicked dreams.
and the voices in my head
offer every serpernt's fruit
deal every hand of dread
the sights, the sounds, the sickly taste,
and the touch upon my skin
are all the different faces of
the demons lurking deep within
Some feeble conscious part of me
whispers - "It's not real! It's not real!"
but in that twilight of life,
more real than real it feels.
All that my waking thoughts bury
beneath everlasting shame
runs amok, twisted mirage
the other me then takes the blame
And then I must wake and walk
amongst all my fellow men
and hold my smiles and frowns and laugh
when I think of where I had been
Though hidden meanings seem to lie
in every eye which at me stares
I cannot really help but think
were they with me when I was there.
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