What if pillows could speak?

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Last night on the periphery of my dream, I heard a voice quite exuberant and assertive. It felt like a colossal light of confrontation had dawned upon me from the creak of the door let open by a carefree mind. I turned to look sideways, but it was on top of me, delving my temple for something flamboyant?
Last night, my pillow spoke to me.

Oh to the left, oh no to the right;
My pillow rose to my succour, not sure if it was called for, never mind the respite.Wind chimes on my imagination, potholes on the dark conscious, she told me she would corner my substance and fight my fight.

She told me she is home to my masochistic adherence, I was appalled to have her making my suicide reference?
But does she not play grounds for my daily funeral, or is that she is my imperilling criminal?

She told me she is filter to the moonlight that travels up my conscience and reaches my eyes. Is that gauging my proliferations to defeat my disguise?

She tells me I can stop looking for shoulders that wouldn’t stay,
I leaned on closer to her and told she looked me in the eye to tell me she doesn’t betray. But was she not guiding my reservations or was it that she was my hefty temptation?

It was for, what it was for.
The night was over and she was sound asleep. I smiled to it in secrecy, and paid my solitary congregation in a sudden leap, overwhelmed by the manoeuvre, I let it sink in. 

And tonight the voice of it wouldn’t let me sleep again.

Posted from WordPress for Android

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