My Dream

I had drifted silently off,
To the sound of the trough,
Relaxing me until I fell,
Through another gate of hell,
This dream is not of waves,
But of old, decrepit graves,
Upon one of the graves was,
An old man, a faux pas,
He held within his hand,
Not grains of wonderful sand,
A skull was beaten in,
Murder, was his sin,
As he looked at me,
It was appearent that I could see,
Rising from his grin,
I could tell I was his next mortal sin,
He rose up to his feet,
His smile filled with deceit,
From his hand he drew,
A blade to carry through,
Ripping through my flesh,
Blood pouring out fresh,
Dropping to the ground,
I could barely make a sound,
Until I closed my eyes,
Did my story revise,
I jumped up out of bed,
To upset to lay my head,
I sat up the whole night,
Waiting to see the warm sunlight...