To sleep, perchance to dream…
In a flowery meadow
Where soft breezes roam
Bringing cool currents of scent
Of newly cut grass,
Of flowers,
Of a summer’s day.
And yet, the sleep
May not end
Instead, the earth may grow cold
As gentle breezes
Become fierce winds
And tumultuous clouds
Bring snow, ice, rain
Which dart from the sky
In a thousand angry spikes.
Dreams may become nightmares
Or nothing,
Nothing,
But
Dark
Blackness.
–Cynthia Haggard writes short stories, novels and poetry. During the day, she is a medical writer and owns her own business. For more on her creative writing, go to spunstories. For more about her medical writing services, go to clarifyingconcepts. (c) 2009. All rights reserved.
