By RR Ewart
Brother, I dreamt of the strangest thing.
I went to the wall atop O’Connell Hill.
I watched you hit a man and my fists felt the sting.
The mob surrounded you with screams so shrill.
I ran down the hill as fast as I could,
To pull you out of the bloodshed.
In the middle of slaughter, you stood.
The bodies on the ground were already dead.
You looked up at the sky,
Covered in a bloody shroud.
Your arms were stretched high,
I thought you were praying out loud.
The pictures in the paper look like my dream in gray tones,
I fear, brother, that this will only end when we all turn to stone.
RR Ewart (she/her) is a writer and artist from Reno, Nevada. She works as a high school English teacher, is an accomplished book-hoarder, and a recovering procrastinator. She is completing her first novel and chapbook publication. Follow her to read more of her work on Instagram.
