Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Pedantic Preacher

Last night,

I dreamed I got on a bus to hell,

and by some chance,

had memories of you,

in my mind,

so there you stood,

nicely passing out the strings of my heart,

that you had collected over the years,

and I silently took them back,

when I could,

wondering how you got your mind back,

and if your dog was still alive,

and if you ever redid your living room,

and if your black shirt,

with the clear buttons,

was ever the same,

after I drowned it.

You wouldn’t answer my questions,

pedantic preacher,

of a faith I no longer hold,

cruel Sphinx that still lives to torture little girls,

who’ve learned so many lessons,

but never seems to pass exams.

I am frightened when I dream of you,

though I know you belong to the ocean now,

but when I see you,

I see bridges,


a religion that held me,

like a newborn baby,

then tossed me to the flames,

and I am livid,

lucid living,

in a delirious dream,

that I didn’t invite you to.


I will ask you again,

and as the room gets lighter,

when I’m closer to waking,

you will lean in close to answer,

kiss my cheek,

and then vanish.

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