Poetry

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None to guide the way out of those dreams

where you know you’re dreaming

and simply want to claw your way into the light, grey sky

of morning, any morning.

 

No markers for you to cling to,

no staff to take up and battle, conscious vs subconscious,

a fight not to the death but to waking,

hoping that the sensation of your body moving

is not from the body that is trapped,

hoping it is from the one where blood flows

and grants oxygen to your brain.

 

Awake, awake!

You call, you shout, you scream.

 

No post-it note to remind you that

dreaming about waking up

and waking from a dream are separate things,

and only one can stop the night terror

that paralyses you in the minutes

sleeping past your alarm.

 

No one to tell you that sixty seconds in the waking world

can be a lifetime

in the dream state.