Treasure Island

Steve Hancock


Midnight she comes like a phantom
Her cloak of darkness and fear
Weaving her shadows of madness
In the depths of my eyes they adhere

From the warm embrace of duvet
Hear whispers in the vaults of gloom
Writhe upon the witching hour
Lucifer inherits my room

Sleep she calls like an angel
Draping my eyes with fatigue
Into the chasm of dreamscape
Old cranium theatre of intrigue

Beguiled by creatures of illusion
In the grave we assume the bed
Lost on the edge of oblivion
Do we sleep or are we the dead

Submitted: Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Edited: Tuesday, April 12, 2011
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  • Ivor Hogg (8/9/2009 9:50:00 AM)

    to sleep perchance to dream but what dreams may come to remind us we have but little time (Report) Reply

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