Blakeney-Rose Berry

In the shimmer of moonlight, on a dew-covered leaf,

There lies the Dreamwalker, a vile ebony-hued beast.

An entity of chaos, its mosaic so vile,

Its whispers taste of copper, while it wears a strange smile.

Tentacles bearing cold eyes , glowing, unwavering,

Into the heart of the dreamer, forever craving.

Tendrils of smooth satin, dark, luminous and hued gold,

Grasping at memories, dreams, fears and tales yet untold.

Its core, a riddle, ominous, evil and profound,

Hidden beneath its layers of melodic strange sound.

Ebony appendages reaching, towards sun’s bend,

Guiding you hypnotically, to realms without end.

And at its centre, a maw painted bright as suns light,

Filled with flowers that bloom in the gloom of dark still night.

Petal, flower and thorn-like, they twist, writhe and they turn,

A vision so mesmerising, it makes the heart yearn.

Those who have danced among its astonishing bright light,

Awake to feeling empty, in the vastness of night.

Yet the Dream Walker’s sweet song does enticingly play,

A dark eldritch lullaby, that sings through endless days.

Beyond the false grim the veil of the Dream Walker’s glow,

In the deepest abyss where the mortals fear to go,

Lurks the weaver of shadows, and the end of all hope,

Its presence consumes, constricts like a tightening rope.

Its eyes, voids of despair, sucking light, life and all cheer,

Its voice, a grim cacophony that preys on your fear.

With fingers like grim blood soaked daggers, sharp, cold, and long,

It silences the false dream, stifling every song.

Where the Dream Walker teases with memories so dear,

The weaver of shadows that feasts on every tear.

Its realm, a wretched wasteland, grizzly, barren and gray,

Where dreams are imprisoned forever, never see day.

Its breath, a smouldering fog, that smothers will and might,

Drowning all colours, corrupting, staining them with blight.

The touch of its ghastly fingers, so icy and bleak,

Leaves souls paralyzed with despair, hopeless frail and weak.

Those ensnared in its grasp, never again sing or dance,

Stuck in a trance forever, in its cruel, cold expanse.

And as the Dream Walker’s haunting, cruel melodies fade,

The villainous weaver of shadows grim dirge parades.

In this realm of cold despair, of the dark endless night,

No hope, no escape, just the ever absence of light.

Yet those forever remember the Dream Walker’s days,

May find a glint of hope, in its distant past dark haze.

Dreamwalker: Behind the Veil: The 13th Beast 

The number 13, often shrouded in superstition, has always intrigued me. Toying with this fascination, I crafted my latest entry in my poems, “In The  Dreamwalker: The Weaver of Shadows.” Intriguingly, this is the 13th entry, and in a nod to the enigma of this number, each line contains 13 syllables. 

This poem invites you into the haunting realm of the Dreamwalker, a creature of both beguilement and foreboding. On the surface, it may appear as two separate beings: the alluring Dreamwalker and the fearsome Weaver of Shadows. Yet, they represent two sides of the same entity.

The Dreawalker embodies the bewitching allure of our dreams. It’s nostalgia in its purest form, reminiscent of treasured memories and comforting dreams. Yet, beneath its charm, lurks an eeriness, reminding us of the duality within beauty.

In contrast, the Weaver of Shadows plunges us into the nightmarish corners of our psyche, those areas tainted by dread and traumatic memories. It’s a stark reminder that not every dream seeks to comfort.

In writing this piece, my intent was to portray the delicate dance between allure and fear, present in our dreams. The way a pleasant dream suddenly turns into a nightmare. As you immerse yourself in this narrative, may you find the strength to embrace the light while acknowledging the shadows.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. I can’t wait to unveil the next creature in my bestiary. Stay tuned!