A Guilty Conscience

Climbing into his bed,
A deep breath, eyes close.
Relaxing, releasing,
He sinks into slumber.

Images of his day
Pass peacefully by.
Slightly strange or mundane,
Dreams of the usual fare.

But dreams can be naive,
Subtle and stubborn,
So shielding and shallow,
Layer upon layer.

Rooted into his core,
The deepest layer,
His dreams kept a secret,
They mask a wicked truth.

Like a grave infection,
His guilty conscience
Tied to a past event,
Hidden but not quite lost.

Skilled dancers nightmares are
Lay resolved in wait,
Determined to reveal
What dreams may choose not to.

Slowly, assuredly
Lightness fades to gray.
In nocturnal repose,
Senses he’s not alone.

The air feels dense and raw,
Deafening silence.
Then stunned, through the darkness
Sudden, familiar screams.

Abruptly, panic grips.
Shame and guilt are bared,
For the nightmares, they know,
And the nightmares, they creep.

Fitful, heart fluttering.
He tosses, he turns.
The shivers and tremors,
His whole body quivers.

Flying at him swiftly,
Faces from his past,
Disembodied, grotesque,
Surround and invade him.

Repulsed and terrified,
Waving arms, vision blurred.
Ahead of him, a path.
Instinctively, he runs.

Flying, fleeing, reaching,
Sweet escape is his.
The path under his feet.
Around his neck, a hand.

Wrenched carelessly downward
He fights to resist.
The screaming, the faces,
Caught by his own nightmares.

Struggling, he calls for help.
Hardly a whisper.
There is no one to come.
There is no one at all.

Harsh, cold wind rushes by
Again and once more.
And in his ear a voice,
"We know you are guilty."

The truth will set him free,
"Yes, I admit it!"
To the nightmares, he shouts.
He will confess his sins.

The light returns to him,
Armed with a resolve,
His eyes open anew.
He sits up, feet on ground.

As he walks toward the door,
A feeling, looks back
On the bed, he still lies.
How can this be? Unless...

Realizing in horror,
Burying a sin
For too long a time can
Absolutely kill you.

Where mercy has been shown
To friends of the truth,
This is not so for all.
For him...it is too late.

© 2009 Sarah Donnellan

I wrote this as a literary challenge 'nightmares dance' inspired by Alfred Hitchcock for The Inferno, where you can read amazing stories by other artists and writers.