Nocturnal Needs Poem by Derek McCasland

My beautiful nightmare
Showers sweet torment
Into my slumber...

Dark angel hair
Slipping deftly
Through my grasp.

Last sip from my tumbler;
My sin now turned to brass;
Ever present echoes,
And murmurs of the past that will refuse to die,
Yet lingers in her eyes
That chain me to this bed,
Despite my maddened cries.

Again she calls upon me,
As every evening hence
She cursed me with her smile;
Bewitched with seamless guile.

...All the while;
...Surreal denial wafts across the path
That winds into a dream;
Betrays my selfish wrath
Of all I falsely gleamed.

False? Yes.
Twas wrong from act one.
Drop the curtain.
Where's the script?
Tear it... rend it
Bit by bitter bit.
No need for it;
Just take a hit of her opium scent
That opened up this path to begin with.

Ah, 'with.'
'With' is my need,
'With' is the crux,
Yet 'with' is my hemlock;
'With' has left me thus...

Thusly thus
Without an us...

Tis only me;
Tis merely you
Waiting.... Watching
For the last act to play itself out
On the stage
Of our desire.