We used to be fearless,

Back when we still lived.

And yet you hold us captive

Bound with wounds we can’t forgive.

Acid of insanity,

Dripping down these walls.

Pure black wine in choking waterfalls.

A stranger of plagues

From abyssal skies you called.

We came to you

And through our hearts you sawed

And wailed your siren song.

Motionless and moon-eyed,

Upon this hungry floor

We are dead but deeply dreaming

Now through your mind we tour

Seeing aspects of ourselves,

Torn and wrapped in gore.

Endless, frantic nightmares

Are all you want us for.

We are deaf with withered ears

In a cosmic coffin, smothered here.

Yet we hear your screams and the words are clear.

So loving as you clutch us near.

Our spirits drift in your ruined land

Wandering through endless night

Black tides lapping at our blood

Oblivious to hope, disease of blight.

In the chains of aeons

Of a ghastly scheme

Bodies dead but minds alive

All we do is dream.

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A poem about my eldritch abomination the Dreamfeeder's favorite pastime, told from the point of view of its unfortunate victims, spirits doomed to dream for perhaps eternity.
*cue evil laugh*
Actually this is sort of a twist on its potential hell-making. These people don't know they're dead, and so they continue to dream even though by all logic they should be free. So they haunt the cold depths of the Void, a pocket dimension sculpted from humanity's darkest dreams.
When I first wrote this, I didn't know where it even came from and was not even slightly depressed. Probably an unconscious thing.

Feedback would be much appreciated, and complimentary happy pills are on the table to your left. :)

updated Jul 10 '10 by RachaelRunes