Dream

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She had fingers that were slim, a mouth that was wide. With a smile that conjured life itself to come alive.

She had a neck that was long, shoulders that were small. Her voice was the song that a nightingale would call.

Hair as black as night in its shadowiest dark, her personality radiated as a firestorm would spark.

Eyes that were wide, the colour of green. The most beautiful face a man could have ever seen.

A body so divine that the Gods smiled on. Their light from Heaven on her continuously shone.

The poise of a Goddess, an elegance so supreme. Making the silence in which I was immersed, shout out in a scream.

Ah, but to know! Now that would be a prize. Is that all that stands before me, or is there a hidden surprise?

if time could stand still and in a dream we remain then nothing we know now would ever be the same.

Each day is lived one day at a time, but we live so many different days all inside our mind.

The mind is an energy set apart on its own. Time doesn’t exist there. Time has no home!

 

© 2015, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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