Fever dreams hunt me in my waking moments,
Lulling, then lurching, with their frightful gasps,
Ever closer and closer to the tattered core,
That throbs with the most vile snickering spite.

But when the night lands on its soft-feathered wings,
Respite remains elusive; my open palm rebuked,
For sleep, so sweet and tender, one last great hope,
Convulses with the sharpness of tempestuous fear.

The walls scream, the floor pushes upward,
The growls clang and clatter most vulgar,
Cloaking my angst forever--I wonder,
What escape is there from this labyrinth?