I See Dead People

I see ghosts out of the corner of my eye.
Shadows of the past, phantoms long gone,
Haunting me. Sleeping and waking, the dreamers
Creep through the tall grass. Circling my sanity.
Searching for the weaknesses in my reality.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Flight of the Moon

photo credit: Luz Adriana Villa A. Noche de luna llena – Full moon night via photopin (license)

Shimmering satellites
Sleep in an unwoken sky.
While primitive thought creeps
Through shattered streets.

Slithering dreams and unkempt memory
Disappear from sight.
Take to the wing.
When at dawn night withers and dies.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

In the Pit of My Stomach

photo credit: Anskit Stessi via photopin (license)

In the dark of the night time
In the cold of my bed
In the moments in between
When the feelings are raw.
When my mouth is slowly drying
And the words rot in my throat.
And the dreams are dying
Like autumn leaves falling in the breeze.
And I can’t unfeel what I’ve felt before.
And my belief is crumbling,
Oh so many nights of tears and dust.
Then there’s this feeling I get
In the pit of my stomach.
A chill like a knife blade
Twisting within my spirit and guts.
When I’d scream

If screaming counted for much.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Sick Dreams

photo credit: National Institutes of Health (NIH) Host infection stimulates antibiotic resistance via photopin (license)

These scenarios play out in my head
‘What if I’m really dead?’
What if this emotion is only a dream,
A dramatic play, scientific cause and effect,
A holographic to and fro, a dance of atoms and dark matters
Between the beats of the clock
Time spiralling down, tick after tock.

‘What if I’m not real?’
All these senses, just inventions, and there’s nothing to feel.
A numbness stretching out and back
As far as I see. But the seeing ain’t seeing
Because this existence ain’t me.
All the flesh and blood fumbling to make a mark
When it’s pitch black, just black, nothing but dark.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.



Flecks of colour in the night
Flickers of motion beyond sight.
The glory of memory
Of you and me. Of you and me.
Repetition of this ceremony

Beneath the waves of this sanctuary.
With a touch as cold as the altar stone
And bed a barren ocean where I lay alone
Within this dark. Where outside lights
Dance and tease just out of sight.

No heart’s comfort now you have gone
The hearth is cold within this home,
And in the garden flowers might
Crumble to dust; in this world turned black and white.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Shapes in the Trees

photo credit: ®DS Fading Lines via photopin (license)

photo credit: ®DS Fading Lines via photopin (license)

All just faces amongst the trees.
These illusions we don’t want to believe.
The madness and violence of dreams –
Insomniac visions, streetlight projection on walls,
Winter winds stirring the childhood bogeyman to life again.
Night flights, fever and tears, evils that breed in my mind.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

A Dot on the Screen

A dot on the TV screen
Disappearing into infinity,
The lights blinking out.
4am, insomnia rules.

Outside the closed curtain
The fox roams the street alone
As the approaching dawn
Creeps closer. The night time is ending

A new day is descending.
Skeletal hands squeeze tighter
Around the throat of the world,
The dark breathes its last.

Fox scuttles away for the shelter of the shadows
A nocturnal creature immune to the lure
Of the beckoning day.
The great pretending that awaits

My sleepless body.
I think of the fox asleep in her den
As I splash ice water onto my face
Washing away the pretence of sleep from my eyes.

How happy for her
To escape into the earth
Away from the pain exposed
To the scrutiny of the sun.

The make-believe world of the insomniac
Of having to say “I’m okay”, when I’m not.
When I know if I could only sleep
There’d be a chance I could dream this pain away.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.