Now, from the one who was silly enough to try writing a humorous tragedy comes another of the self-imposed pointless tasks - another exercise that didn't get shown because it didn't make the grade. This time, an attempt to merge the genres of nightmare and love poem. Yes, yes, I know goth's have been trying to write this sort of poem for years. There is a difference. They want to embrace the nightmare and make it their alternate reality. In those poems extreme sensual pleasure, agonising death, and eternal love are blurred together in a Transylvanian-Hollywood extravaganza. The task I set myself was harder (IMNSHO). I wanted the words to be real and believable. It had to be clear it was a dream. (And as a token of its gothlessness, I made sure it didn't mention blood or death.)

A dream was waiting for my weakest moment:
Waiting near the dawn -
A place where sleep had stilled those thoughts
That strained for one more breath.
My fear had fangs and putrid claws
To flay, to tear, to shred my back
To stalk behind my stumbling,
Clumsy steps - my treacle flight.

That dream had disappeared
And left my dead-weight legs to keep me from
A meeting at which I must speak
To make my future sure.
Now time is short, I shall be late,
No shoes, no clothes, no chance to dress.
Reluctant muscles won't respond,
Regardless of my plight.

A third dream starts with care-free skies,
With sunshine warm and breezes cool.
One leaden memory breaks this bliss -
Of being lost to you.
I live in nature's comfort knowing
Nothing of your life and dreams
But memories. Wishes without hope
Wield crueler blades than fear.