Poetry · Writing

Nightmare

The doors closed, both parties

were inside. The alcohol

in his flask grew warm.

He was there when they

arrived. Tux’s and dresses

all the same secondary.

They looked happy.

The street grew quiet,

he couldn’t stop staring

at the bells above,

hoping

hoping they won’t ring.

Hoping the doors would

burst open.

The white gown flowing,

in your trails,

sour cries from inside hushed

from the past left in her wake.

Alone, wanting, the dream he

wished for, masked the

sound the clanging bells.

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