No pleasant dreams, says I

it seems

a nightmare’s more

of what’s in store

with heaving lungs

and paling tongues

I cannot promise you good rest

your sleep will haunt you

horror’s best

no breath, you fear this most of all

ne’er reaching rail before you fall

deep in inky darkness all

damp and cluttered, closed-in walls

a King I see, his throne is high

adorned with flashy sharpened knives

all it takes is just one cut

and screaming, goes your mangled throat

but he envisions life from death

you come back, jester instead

if laugh, you cannot this king make

your impaled head upon his stake

and startled, then you shake awake

a macabre book beneath your pate.

– Sandra Johnson