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Night Terror
by
Arthur Lane
I dreamt last night of hate-filled eyes
In a twisted snarling face,
And a voice that bellowed, hoarse with rage,
And knew I was back in that place.
For the blood and the brains and the slivers of bone,
And the pitiful stares of the dead
And the last bubbling gasps in a dying child’s throat,
Are all locked away in my head.
All under control, and quickly subdued,
Not meant for casual ears;
Yet, still today, I know the taste
Of bitter salty tears.
Scalding tears of rage, that men
Could do that to a child;
So when we found them later that day,
We let the boys run wild.
Training fought hate for control of my mind;
The race was very close-run;
Though later I came to admit we were wrong,
I refuse to regret what was done.
Those eyes, that face and that voice are all mine
There’s no other sound that I hear;
Except for that throat filled with blood at the last,
That always rings out loud and clear.
And I awake with a pounding heart,
Teeth clenched to keep from screaming
And wonder what I’ve done of late
To trigger off such dreaming.
Maybe there’s something in all of us,
However deeply hidden,
That makes us relish in our dreams
The things that are forbidden?
The most savage of beasts that stalks the world
Takes no delight in killing;
Except for the one that walks erect;
And that one’s always willing.
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