Slaughtered

Some dreams are meant to be broken.

Did you dream last night?,
Of a rotten egg?,
Unshaved, and lost of its right.

Did I dream last night?,
Of the same,
In an unfashionable fright.

So the scarred remains of the skin,
remains stuffed under the mask,
of filth, and what could have been,
now, buried in the slums of tomorrow.

Plagued, by a disease, uncured.
I wished, of a yolk.

I dug a hole last night,
and filled it with water,
Swimming was a challenge,
but I woke up to dust.

My egg, lay unbroken,
scratched.

The disease it kept spreading,
I wished, of a yolk.

The white, it dripped,
painting the floor,
the stench, then, bore an aroma.

Sweeping, the dust, dint budge,
When it finally did,
The egg succumbed.

The disease had me,
the yolk, was gone.

Reviews

[Augustus]

A very emotional write, powerfully rendered...I must say that the egg metaphor is extremely peculiar...I see a lot of pain in these lines...and the frustration of broken dreams as you have stated in the description...it becomes increasingly unsettling with the repeated use of the word "disease"...a rather chilling metaphor.
My favourite lines were...

"So the scarred remains of the skin,
remains stuffed under the mask,
of filth, and what could have been,
now, buried in the slums of tomorrow."

How poignantly you have described the scenario!
And the dreams then disintegrate into nothingness over the next few lines, aptly ending with "the yolk, was gone"... a curt and concise ending with, if I may say so, a very meaningful comma between yolk and was...Wonderfully penned!