Is it a kind of dream
Floating out on the tide,
Following the river of death down-stream
Oh is it a dream?
There's a fog along the horizon
A strange glow in the sky
And nobody seems to know where you go
And what does it mean
Oh oh is it a dream?
Bright eyes burning like fire,
Bright eyes how can you close and fail
How can the light that burned so brightly
Suddenly burn so pale? Bright eyes.
And there it is, that dreadful melody. It’s screaming, ringing wildly in your ears and there’s nothing you can do to hush it. You bury your head into the pillow to try and smother the sound. You wail into it, your cries heavily muffled in the fabric, but it still doesn’t drown it out.
The music continues its rough crescendo, abrupt and callous, strings of unknown instruments shrieking their song. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. Behind closed eyes you see them. That gaunt and wasted orchestra. Figures of blood surrounded by darkness, their instruments bleeding the sound of death, dribbling heavily on to the non-existent floor and squeezing itself from your eyes to soil the white pillow, turning it a dirty pink.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
And now there’s singing, bereft and wallowing, in rhythm with the frantic beating of your heart. They’re telling you he’ll never return. He died alone. And the twisted not in your abdomen pull tighter, ensnaring guilt and choking reason.
It’s chaos. You understand the meaning of that word. Down has become up and up has become down, the room spins and teeters and you have no control. You’re lost in the tuneless symphony to drown in a sea of red. And that’s where you remain for days, weeping, bleeding, drowning.
Until you realise how selfish you’re being.