Poem, Scenic, Short story


In the wake of dreams, little can fill the void. In the wake of nightmares, nothing can fill the silence like the thunderous sound of a gentle breeze, or the earth shattering crack of a pillar adjusting to temperature.

So to wake once more in the depths of night, with no sign of dusk nor dawn. Where the cold seems to creep as though it follows death itself to attack limbs and senses alike and ensure they stay within the relative warmth of bed and seek not to light a candle or bring a fire back to life.

The promise of a stong drink however, can overcome such obstacles. And in the depths of night, where babe’s dream of mother’s milk, and others rest until dawn comes, I brave the embracing cold to light both candle and fire, and sit between both, mead in hand, for yet another day has so begun.

It had been not too long ago that I would have succumbed to such dreams, and as a child shivered and quaked in bed, hoping for dream and fear alike to wane and dissipate.

Yet here I am, no longer hoping for such terrors to fade, but rather to come and make themselves at home. With drink in hand, I sit and hope that such terrors would be not simply terrors of closed eye and tired mind, but reality itself.

And with a beating breaking down of door and wall they would no longer hide themselves behind sound and shadow, but come to take my life and soul and drag both from the world.

But a quick stabbing pain or tear of flesh and so this endless parade of sleepless night and weary day would see themselves to an end.

Or perhaps I would drink enough to wish to fight such horrors, to slaughter them and feast upon their corpses roasted fresh upon this dim and warming fire. That I would feel warm inside as well as out, and taking my fill would sleep and dream.

I take another drink and stare upon the flames. If only either were an option.


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