We wake in barren fields
that once grew the fullness
of our dreams.
Under a divided sky,
that yields no rain,
nor sunlight,
we struggle with mere existence.
Reality has faltered.
As if someone
has altered the contract
written since the days
of Creation.
Our fingers sink down
into the barren soil.
Roots seeking water,
seeking some purchase
in this unfamiliar nightmare,
but our fists come up empty,
only caked with black sludge
that smells of burning homes.
Plastic and wood.
Our field
is ashes and oil.
Eyes skyward,
desperately straining
for one ray of light
to pierce the dull firmament.
No sun, no moon, no stars,
only the strangely diffused light
of a somnambulist’s purgatory.
A life in the dream,
never to wake.
The staked prey
of the paralysis demon.
Our open mouths
cry out for water.
Cracked lips and parched throats
are soon coated with a thin layer
of greasy corruption,
sucked from the air
with every breath.
The voice submerged,
drowned out,
until the mind breaks,
for it no longer recognises
its situation
as any form of life.
Will the clouds part?
Will the rain come?
Will the dreamers
wake to find the morning light,
steaming through
clean, uncracked windows?
If so,
will their eyes still see?
Will their tongue still taste?
Will their minds still remember
living a nightmare?
HG – 2022
