Dreaming Of Death And Dying Poem by Rita Cerniglia

At night when I lie down in bed
at practice for when I am dead;
coolly pressed between the sheets
in nakedness while reading Keats;
preserved in restful yawns and sighs
and further, distant lullabyes -
I fight the death and close my eyes
and dream of waking living.

In fitful, frightening discourse,
I ride the swift and palest horse
on molten foam between the seas
dividing madness from disease;
a deadly race no rider wins,
except the skeleton that grins;
the vision ends, begins and ends -
though I am never certain.

A sudden wind whispers, 'awake, '
I surface from the dreaming lake
to gasp a glimpse of living time -
emerging drunken from Death's wine;
to stagger blindly through the black
only to find I've made it back.
A thunder roll, a lightning crack!
A neverendingnumbness.....

Each night another portion served
like sleeping oysters smoothly curved;
till Death will pry one, sleepy eye
upon the deep throat of the sky -
and kill the red moon finally,
and kill the darkness, you, and me,
then take his own life - dreadfully
that chaos may awaken.