It was a dream.

It was a dream.

I stood in a dressing room

Holding a pair of underpants

Too big for me

Which is all very strange

Until I think about

The scale of things.

Everything I conceive

Is shaped from deep within

A great bowl

Of sky

The claw marks

On the clouds

As I attempt to climb out

The trace of blood on my fingertips

Turning to rust

Heavy tears abrading

The skin like iron filings.

Opening my eyes makes little difference

There is an opalescent quality

To the world outside

Which may or not exist tomorrow.

The weight of expectation

To survive

Is as heavy as a flat iron

Squashing down

Taking out the creases

Pushing the air out

With a pop

Of escaping gas.

I realise

I need to wear my big-boy pants

There is a moral

Beneath the taunt of everyday

Concerns.

The dream is over

Nothing really changes

Without insight.

Opening dream-filled eyes

To the blood and guts

The spattering of chaos

In the out-there

Is worthy of attention.

Better by far

Than the opaque reality

Of old dreams

Handed down from one

Sleep to the next.

Too long

Taking root

As the world zips by

Waiting in hope of escape.

A saving grace

To be pulled into the arms

Of an angel.

But they only exist

For the wishful

Their touch restricted

To the fallen.

And whilst I might be falling

I am yet to reach the ground

Perhaps the time has come

To fly.