Usually they’re broken,
Bits of fantasy and reality forged together into a senseless story.
for despite the disaster your survival’s inevitable.
Occasionally you awaken in fear or bliss.
For a tornado turned inside you and put you in need of a certain kiss.
I wonder if when your dreams decide your soul’s not to keep,
if that’s the reason you die in your sleep.
They say the closer you are to death the more alive you feel.
It’s ironic you can be asleep when that sensation seals.
Nightmares force us to face our fears,
and the good ones display our greatest dears.
I ponder if we dream after we’re dead,
or if that ability dissolves when we’re no longer fed.
They tear us from actuality and make the unthinkable attainable.
If given the choice of that
I doubt I’d have an answer at the hands of a knife.