I Had A Dream That Love Was Dead

I had a dream that Love was dead. Her face was caked in dirt, eyes oozed a brown fluid, green puss seeped from the ears and countless wooden stakes were driven through the body. The ashen face was too much to comprehend, the suffering, too great to fathom, too dreadful to dream. What had we done? Had we truly murdered Love, assassinated the whole of Love?

I called out to Love, I shrieked to the heavens, but her eyes remained vacant, stilled by death, sunken from murder, emptied of goodness. I felt the tears flooding my face as I howled a solemn prayer for Love to breathe once again. Do not forsake us, your children, do not fade from our foul use! Wake up! Wake up! I shuddered from the silence, death had at last found its way into Love.

I awoke drenched in sweat. The morning light poured through the window. I thought, if Love was dead, to whom was I praying?

© 2011 by mark prime