Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.
They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.
Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.
Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?
How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell, that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares tipping, tapping, at your minds door?
I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.
Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.
There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.
But quite dreadfully more.