By Richard Dean
Death came in on millipede legs, silent
Slithered beneath the covers
Worked its way close, dripping poison
Midnight Succubus in my mouth, pretending to sleep
Its intentions are blind - pure avarice
It's choices not its own, turning dreams to twisted landscapes - scorched earth and burnt loves
On waking, departed, save for a single drop of blood
A rose on the coverlet
Another day of make believe