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Morning

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Waking up in a cold sweat
At 6:40 in the morning
The sweet scent of dawn
Conflicts with the blur of distress in my brain.
Thinking of the tale the night had hand woven
My eyes glaze over
I am shot back into a dream
Pushing against the currents of my disillusion
As fear’s deafening silence washes over me,
Muffling my cries for help
Anguish seldom has a sound.
Soon the psychotic frenzy calms
Propelling me, though damaged, to the surface
Thrown back into consciousness
But it’s too late.
The coffee is stale, the toast has burned.



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