Posted by: Peadar Ban | September 8, 2012

Poem: A Dream

A Dream:

It doesn’t matter if the crickets wail
And sirens chirp pleasantly
In the shadows of the stinking vale.
The wind still licks hungrily

While the flames fling cinders high
Of burnt sin blackened souls
Chewing on the corners of the sky
Seeking their escape through holes

In this damned endless night;
In the very mercy of the Lord.
Nothing makes sense.  Nothing’s right,
Absolutely nothing at all.

What matters is I wait in line
For moments in the wind whipped flame
And bitter flight through hateful fire.
Brief light before despair again.



  1. This is more depressing than what I used to write at the Prep!

    ________________________________ Richard M. Scarlata

    • Just straight reporting. And they say one meets a better class of people in one’s dreams.


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