Fever Dream

Listen to Fever Dream by Richard Charles Stevens

Listen to Requiem for a Dream by Clint Mansell (Remix)

When I was a little boy
I dreamed a little dream
Neither sleeping or awake
But some place in-between
Did not tell a single soul
For few would have believed
The kind of sights my widened eyes had seen

‘Twas the age of innocence
Of industry and keen
Life was an adventure then
And principally believed
Every time the lights were dimmed
Would venture to the stream
To lounge beneath the oldest, wisest tree

Had I been less bold then untold tales would still be so
Had I been a few years older
I would not have known
Magic in these sprawling roots
The truth within each knot
Knew it all back then you see
Years later, had forgotten

All I saw were rotten apples
Leaves without a home
Fallen branches
Dear departed memories outgrown
Life was cruel
I guess, in kind
Less inclined to show the kind of sights my widened eyes once cared to show
Everything felt just so need to know

Stepped within the hollow of the tree and there remained
Patiently awaited while my sorrows then accumulated
Ruminating fates of those to soon be snatched away
For theirs pre-dated even nature’s way

Dusted stylus scoring vinyl
Death made every breath seem final
Had to dream my little dream
For each tear shed then bled revival
Weathered roots commenced to thrive
Widened eyes undressed of bind
Life was cruel
I guess, in kind
Yet, wasn’t fooling me

The oldest, wisest tree confided secrets in its keep, you see
Had I been a few years younger
I would have spun yarn more discreetly
Children were permitted to be seen but seldom heard
Needed full acquittal from a fickle life of brittle lies committing crimes to whittle and defeat me

Had I not been teetering from very end of tether
Then I would never likely have endeavored through the never to the late September dream I felt entitled hell for leather to repeat
A little dream
The kind of sights so rarely seen
Yet verily believed
Neither sleeping or awake
But somewhere in-between

Thus, every time the lights are dimmed
I feverishly venture to the stream
To lounge beneath the oldest, wisest tree
And prize the most delighting sight my widened eyes have ever dreamed

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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1 Comment

  1. “Dusted stylus scoring vinyl” – that one line screams so much in many different ways.

    Really insightful piece about a journey of hardships gradually changing into a safe place 🌳

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