The Real Gregor

I wake to find I cannot budge -
Immobilized upon my back,
Stuck, like a fly in melted fudge.
My arms and legs are thin and black;
I wave them feebly in the air,
And hear the muscles creak and crack.
My skin, that once was soft and fair,
Is chitinous. I’ve soiled the bed.
And what has happened to my hair?
Strange lambent eyes are in my head;
The room’s pitch dark, and yet I seem
To see all colours, blue to red.
Am I still locked inside a dream?
I reach out for my mother’s brooch
And prick myself. It hurts! I scream,
Then hear my mother’s soft approach.
“You dreamt that you were human, dear.
The nightmare’s gone. You’re still a roach.” 

Brian Allgar

If you have any comments on this poem, Brian Allgar would be pleased to hear from you.