It is come, the time that I most dread,
Angry souls, awakining from the dead.
Nightmares come,invading the weakest part of my mind,
no relief, the end of peace, I will find.
The painful screams, the mournful shouts
my thoughts turning inside out
They wander about, empty eyes ablaze,
looking at you, with a lifeless gaze.
So many surround you, round and round they go.
Reaching, grabbing, trying to steal your soul.
The dead have no peace, once a month they rise.
Why should this night be different? I am not suprised.
Toss and turn, willing yourself to wake,
Wanting the dream to end, knowing its fake.
But so real it seems, as his hands reach for you,
Run, run,run, what more can you do?
Tears, stream from your eyes, from the fear within,
hoping you wouldnt have to,live it again.
Over, and over, and over once more, knowing it'll
Be the same, knowing whats in store.
A cold sweat, breaks through your skin,
how much longer, for the nightmare to end?
You try to pull yourself, from the dark clouds of sleep,
but this time, your sleeping way to deep.
He reaches skeletal fingers, rotting smell of his breath,
and your nostrils are invaded, by the putrid smell of death.
Just as his fingers touch your skin,
your horrible nightmare comes to an end.
You let out a loud fearful scream,
and wake yourself, from this horrible dream.
Sleep doesn't come, no more this night,
for fear, once again, the nightmare, will arrive.
© Cynthia Clark