–Poetic Dream–

These words are dreams,
Come to life,
From a death like sleep.
To pen them down,
I own them,
Through this I can keep.

A future of horrors,
Or one of bliss,
Black skys rain blood.
Rose petals by the score.
Moonlit walks on the beach,
Or deadly bloody gore.

Those dreams, these words,
Terror for the hearts of them,
Or softly forgotten thoughts,
Beauty of precious sin.
For this, and those,
A fancy prose.

Too soon the dreams,
Can come to life,
Within ourselves,
This deadly knife.
Spoken now as before,
Dreams remembered, ancient lore.