18 April 2012

Unidentified Regret

You awake with a start,
your heart rushing blood
to the drums in your ears.
A dream half-remembered -
spectres' trails that
let the chill in

while the ghouls on your landing
lay traps, wrong-foot you,
trip-wire the stairs.
False-treads, ghost-risers,
bones jolt and clatter
on steps that aren't there.

You reach out to clutch
what's beyond the stretch
of your fingertips.

The stench of a clown's breath,
yellow teeth leering,
paintwork peeling,
repeats from your dreaming.
The promise of fun
sugar-spun pink,
melting to nought
on the warmth of your tongue
before you can sink

your teeth in.

And the aftertaste is bitter.

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