As I laid upon my bed last night, I dreamed
Of many varied things, and yet it seemed
That one stood out above the rest
And even waking puts my faith to test.
The dream a nightmare some would call
But I did not find it so at all.
I dreamed of blood flowing fast and free,
But blood not of Christ, but rather, me.
Not all my blood, nor by my own hand,
But enough that me it left no strength to stand.
I woke to regret, but not to fright:
Saddened the dream lasted not all the night.
Now waking and sleeping, when my eyes drift shut,
I see the blood, and a razor blade, poised to cut.
Thirst and hunger over me have no sway,
But the blood! It clouds me even as I pray.
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