Growing up, I often had vivid daydreams about visiting strange and magical places that felt very real to me. Many times after visiting my special places, I felt tired and confused. When I was 17, after returning from an especially scary mind trip, I captured where I had been and how I had in my poem, “The Plague”. This was penned two years before I was told I had epilepsy and I recently found it in the back of my, now very old, Funk & Wagnalls Standard College Dictionary.
Wind was whistling, roaring and stinging,
Blowing clouds of death over the moon.
A shimmering disk, fighting for space
In the darkening skies of doom.
Poisoned wells of heaven wept,
Houses burning, flesh stinking,
Children crying, kinsmen dying,
That dreaded plague come again,
With the speed of an archer’s swift arrow.
Ravaging and killing all that lived.
Dead carried in oaken tumbrels,
Buried in pits dug by the dying,
No preference shown to earl or churl.
Killing the rich, slaughtering the poor.
From town to town, weaving a web,
An evil spider searching for food.
Valhalla no warriors would see that night.
Castles barren, armor rusting,
Athelings crippled, rulers fearing,
Scops silent, mead halls empty.
Fought with prayers by brave young witans.
Time itself, the only weapon.
Trees budding, birds singing,
Slowly mead halls fill with brave men,
Numbers diminished, with mirthless talking.
Weapons sharpened, food gathered,
Hunts scheduled, weddings planned.
Nothing said of what had happened.
All knew it would come again.
That morbid wrath from heaven.