They’re not what I call nightmares, but they’re dreams
I’d rather not remember when I wake.
I’m not a bit prophetic but the themes
of death or sinking health repel my peace.
An infant drowned, a brother lost, extremes
of fleeting tragedy, including death
that happened 16 years ago. It seems
enough innocuous that I don’t quake,
but rising I’m replaying whispered screams.

(Magic 9)

This entry was posted in Aging, Personality, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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