My nights are vexed with troubling dreams.
I stand within an open space,
Disorganised, confused, displaced;
I'm silent, but my insides scream.
The sky above, a curfew black,
Has swallowed up the shrunken sun.
I cannot move, but I must run:
A knife is pressed against my back.
There's no denouement to this scene:
No lunge is made, no blood is spilled;
I am not stabbed; I am not killed;
But panic's vamping in my spleen.
