Tired, sweating,
I lay in my bed.
Worried, the doctor
—the monk— said
I'd got the plague.
My face, filled with dread.
It didn't take long
for the buboes to appear,
swollen with dreams.
I knew the cure,
who didn't?
I knew how to save
—or to be saved—
from that dreadful plague.
But would I do it?
Should I do it?
Only cutting the bumps open
could save me.
He looked at the mayor.
He didn't speak,
but he did nod.
I wanted to scream,
to beg for
my true life to
be saved.
But I knew it was
useless.
I was hopeless.
The monk approached,
slowly, seriously.
Then he started cutting:
one dream,
another dream,
all of them
thrown into a bin.
My essence drained,
the plague was fleeing
and my dreams
were lost—
and my self with them.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC
Tired, sweating,
I lay in my bed.
Worried, the doctor
—the monk— said
I'd got the plague.
My face, filled with dread.
It didn't take long
for the buboes to appear,
swollen with dreams.
I knew the cure,
who didn't?
I knew how to save
—or to be saved—
from that dreadful plague.
But would I do it?
Should I do it?
Only cutting the bumps open
could save me.
He looked at the mayor.
He didn't speak,
but he did nod.
I wanted to scream,
to beg for
my true life to
be saved.
But I knew it was
useless.
I was hopeless.
The monk approached,
slowly, seriously.
Then he started cutting:
one dream,
another dream,
all of them
thrown into a bin.
My essence drained,
the plague was fleeing
and my dreams
were lost—
and my self with them.
I had this sitting in a random folder in my PC so I decided to put it out :)
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Copyright: Shattentraumer, 2026. Licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/). Original: https://hellopoetry.com/poems/5310878/a-terrible-plague-named-dreaming
