I have seen in black and white and red,
But it is not a joke.
It is the blurring of vision,
The dry mouth and heart in throat,
The replaying of a fairground mind,
Spinning faster until you
gasp for the air that has been
Thrown from your lungs
in an effort for you to
Know how it will feel.
And you find your tongue making sticky sounds
While it drys in the heat of your
Thoughts.
And the person next to you asks if you’re OK,
Or if you want a sweet.
And you smile a
Falsehood, comforting them
but making your eyes blind.
You cannot escape until
Bedded dreams fluff your
head but even then the
scream remains in the distant.
A muffled hum that turns
Fields into concrete,
And mouths into taunting smiles,
As monsters creep around you.
Quietly.
Waiting for the morning.
Lily Portman 