Distilled Dreams [Prose Poem]

Echoes of things forgotten in childhood cast from a mountain are microscopic stones thrown against winter winds. Life flourishing at the bottom. Consciousness freezing at the summit. Iron holds us at the wrists and ’round the waists. Sinking but unable to struggle! Like the nightmare I had on the hard basement apartment floor after mom moved me from the bed because I didn’t have my own.

A monster grabbed me by the pajamas, clenching its many tentacles around my throat as I lashed under covers, unable to scream.

Now that I’m a quarter of a century old I still have nights when my arms can’t move and it feels like my head’s held underwater until–I finally flop, blue in the cheeks, on a firm mattress. Early mornings like this it’s hard to just turn over, try to forget, to get back to sleep. But, in time, the heartbeat slows to normal and fatigue hangs heavier than the fear of returning to the dream.


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