I have to look up and ask why,
I have to ask about God.

My mind reels,
and a light flashes back and fourth.

I am watched,
and I am hated...

..Hat and hate alike.

A robed figure upon a marble slab,
but the slab is more than what it seems,
it's really nothing more than a grave.
In his hand is a solid metal staff,
the wind tugs at the figures cloth,
yet his features remain in shadow.
He will play his part in time.
Across the world their a monk sits,
comfy on his pillow,
deep in thought and meditation.

But then he's pulled into that dream,
the dream he had as a boy,
the dream he feared everyday,
but this time it was different.

The sky above was clear here,
the stars like candles,
and the rain that was falling were pellets of wax.

It was cold out,
freezing almost,
the trees and ground were bare and lifeless.

Off in the distance,
out before him,
is simply a fenced in graveyard,
the gates rusted and fallen.

Compelled by some force that he knew not,
the monk rose and began twoards the land of corpses.

Once inside,
it was simple enough,
graves and tombs and memorials,
all around,
dedicated and housing those that have passed before.

The center of the yard housed the most outstanding of them all,
a single ebony tower,
a column that was unmarked in full.

Turning,
the monk is thrust into the nightmare,
a decaying corpse,
nailed upon a cross,
turning in horror,
he finds the graves replaced by crosses and corpses.

Running in terror,
the monk fails to see the bare cross laid before him.
Tripping,
he falls upon the cross,
and is quickly nailed and hung upon it by unseen hands,
all the time the monk screaming in agony and praying for it to end.
The pain was so real.

And then it ends.

But the monk awakes with a start,
and takes a moment to realize where he's at.

Is the nightmare repeating he wounders?

Before him is a grave,
and atop is the figure.

The monk gasps and rises,
just as the figure throws back his hood,
his face pale and sunken,
hair spiked and vampire fangs.
It's the beggar in his dream so long ago.

He then lauphs,
as the monk screams,
and as the figure prepares to feast on the monk,
this time there is no awakening.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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