Shattering

Something simple, something strange.

A fight for my dreams,
as a war when I am asleep.
Those spindles on the ol' sewing wheel,
made from millcraft wood and special
drain pine.
A point like a thorn,
from a yellow rose,
from day's break.


Like starry glass,
of midnight,
cracked in dawn's grasp.
I twist and turn in my bed,
my pillow and sheets
drentched in sweat.


A nightmare,
I can change it.
I just know it for sure.
Experiances of
a friendly face,
colors from my painting
palet.


Splattered in the mist,
of haze and a masterpiece
unfinished.
This war, I say,
is one that is unwon,
always like an eagle,
with that endless hunt.


That spindle killed me
with one prick,
one moment I am dead,
the next I am still
in my bed.
The light flickers on,
and my parents
ceased to say it was only a
dream.

Yes, a dream,
that is all.

Or is it really?