Penciled in Red
My dreams are so bizarre
Things in my head penciled in red,
a sham in a can full of worms,
hard to partake in another’s mistake,
with the meagre money I earned.
It’s not c’est la vie or a cool cup of tea,
but a plan that went badly wrong,
a dark second sense with no recompense,
and the words not fitting the song.
It started out simply on Sunday,
and turned from chance to a dance of intrigue,
a package a parcel and pick up,
a chance to get in the big league.
A delivery down by the river,
an old barn near lost in the mist,
and as I pushed open the heavy door,
I had a feeling there was something I’d missed.
The saying “Don’t shoot the messenger”,
flashed into my mind,
then I bolted back through the long grass,
leaving the barn far behind.
The rest of the mess is history,
the barn exploded with a deafening roar,
leaving very little but splinters,
I didn’t think I could take any more.
Then I felt the cold fingers,
of a hand running up my back,
I screamed, and the dream departed,
then leapt out of bed like a jumping jack.
I looked back at the bed and penciled in red,
laid a memory from afar,
and then in delight I stepped out of the night,
my dreams are so bizarre.
©
David Rudder
2nd November 2020
Thanks for reading.
