Dear Emily D.

Last night I dreamt,
Not sure what to think of your accent,
Sitting on a park bench,
Scent in the air caused me to repent,
Dare I suggest,
You have my consent,

(Emily appears)…

‘I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through’

Maybe it is just life but I feel chained,

As if my brain has nothing to gain,
I could slay every fairy-tale creature,
Still I would question,
Whether Mark Twain was right,

(Emily continues)

‘My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away -‘

It begun well before the age of critical thinking,
Long before I knew how heavy a hand-gun felt in my hands,

No matter how fast I run,
It is impossible to outrun,
Similar to Hemingway,
Should I reach for THE Shotgun,

(Emily and I look at each other. For what feels like an eternity)…

Are you still there,
Your face has become unrecognizable,

The light in our eyes is waning,
The anger in our hearts is spreading,
The confusion in both of us is growing,

(I turn towards Emily)…

This pain won’t stop on its own,
Replace this ravaged soul,
I miss a world with magic,
This darkness is too much,


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