"Preceding our dreams is silence; a pause in our mortality." -- E. Riddle
In the Arms of a Nightmare, the Wicked Awaken
Wicked are our nightmares. In the silence (listen!) they come like dark soldiers marching across our subconscious; armed, dangerous, hungry.
Sleep abides our forbidden thoughts, its benign empathy soothing our eyes into sleep. Cradled in the arms of mother night our breath is like whispering music against the soft pillow beneath our heads; and yet they hear us and are swift in their response. Marching across the realms of our minds they plunder our dreams; cast out of the light they seek our shadows. They are relentless in their greed, their anger, as they seek revenge, tearing our eyes wide so we may see that which is lost in the light.
They are our creations, an echo of what we refuse to hear, and they thrive on our fears, basking in the frosty shadows cast by a frightening light of which there is no origin. Death is their master & servant, and in sleep they live.
Our screams are silent, yet all fallen angels hear us on their way down.
In the Arms of a Nightmare, the Wicked Awaken
Wicked are our nightmares. In the silence (listen!) they come like dark soldiers marching across our subconscious; armed, dangerous, hungry.
Sleep abides our forbidden thoughts, its benign empathy soothing our eyes into sleep. Cradled in the arms of mother night our breath is like whispering music against the soft pillow beneath our heads; and yet they hear us and are swift in their response. Marching across the realms of our minds they plunder our dreams; cast out of the light they seek our shadows. They are relentless in their greed, their anger, as they seek revenge, tearing our eyes wide so we may see that which is lost in the light.
They are our creations, an echo of what we refuse to hear, and they thrive on our fears, basking in the frosty shadows cast by a frightening light of which there is no origin. Death is their master & servant, and in sleep they live.
Our screams are silent, yet all fallen angels hear us on their way down.
So what do we make of our nightmares? Are they simple, random thoughts and feelings merging together while we sleep, an attempt by our subconscious to sort through our inner chaos? Consider the possibility of something less benign, perhapse a perforation in the thin membraneous wall between the realms of life & death. Could it be we briefly do brush shoulders with death as we sleep?
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