I dreamt a dream that some demons must have sent,
Feeling all the pains I underwent;
No pictures, no hues, just the feeling,
All my bruises and cuts without healing.
I dreamt a dream that was set as sent by Death,
But it did fit no reasoning, nor math;
No relief, nor aftermath, just the moaning,
Like a self-pity-full, endless night and morning.
I dreamt a dream that was meant to be my end,
A fearful damnation, not mend;
All the pain and immense sadness,
Making every deathwish sickeningly reckless.
I was sent a senseless dream with Death being mad,
Vengefully meaning me dead;
I felt blueishly cold and in dreadful purple,
Hiding in my last reckless prayers as a turtle.
I was meant to dream a dream that was chance or warning,
Putting up the black phone calling;
With every evidence Death’s hands hang,
I wished not dreaming that dream while it just rang, rang, rang…