LatinosUSA

Mr. James daydreamed of roses.

It was his recurring reverie.

Blousy pink roses

so clear

he could almost spell their fragrance

almost touch their pastel petals

a sweet dream

of pale,

pink roses.

It was the hands that turned it into a nightmare,

those pale fragile hands reaching out,

more and more of them

threatening

beckoning

cajoling

he couldn’t work it out,

couldn’t understand,

only knew he felt

fear,

fear day and night

a sleepy dread

of dreaming.

First published in Gorko Gazette, July 2024