Going Home

a short prose like poem about my waking nightmare.

I open my eyes and all I can see are dead tree limbs and corpses scattered among the stones.
A vast waste land of nothing but decay.
There’s the sound of birds in the distance. Scavengers. Waiting to tear my flesh, pick apart my bones until there is nothing left, just as they have done to the many before me.
I should be terrified.
How did I end up here?
It doesn’t matter. Not really.
I’ve been here many times before
in my dreams
[what you may call nightmares]
And the truth is
it feels like home.