A Dream

Dee Richards
Mar 8, 2024

I awoke with the golden sun,
Touched the open window again.
My steps creak the wooded hallways
Like ghost moans of their scything pain.

There is trash crowding the entries
Of the rooms in this part-time home
That I walk around and around —
I will not be left still, alone.

Every day, the rug grows thinner
On this worn-out path that I tread
There aren’t windows left for the sun;
Dragging feet, I see…

…I am dead.



Dee Richards

Dee is a neurodiverse writer from San Diego, with 3 awards in CNF & 9 short-form pubs. Subjects: feminism, identity theory, surrealism, horror, media analysis.