"Don't let it linger in your head..."
He whispers, buried in his bed.
By day, his heart a silent strum,
by moonlight dim – a beating drum.
With quiet song and mournful ring,
at every turn – a frightful thing.
Distraught, he vows "Don't look, don't fret..."
His balmy nape engulfed with sweat.
Beneath his sheets of weak and frail,
his lucid wander sets for sail,
and in his palms of sweat he held
a shield of cloth that had him shelled.
His eyelids shut, for what may seem
is darker than the darkest dream.
A nightmare – had the scenes imposed,
if only.... just.... his eyes were closed.
Written by Samir Chahine © 2019