The Reverie Of Rene Magritte


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.


https://thegorkogazette.com/2024/07/12/the-reverie-of-rene-magritte-by-lynn-white/


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