It's three in the morning.

Dreamt

I dreamt again.
It's been a while,
Since I do so.

They say it's a reflection of reality,
Your view of it all.

What may happen,
What may never happened.

But it doesn't matter,
As the dried slate lifted me up and off
a squeaky folding bed in a cheap motel.
Down south hemisphere.

The radio beeps old Soviet morse code,
The birds sing a terrible tune in the courtyard.
They're perfect together.
Hellish symphony to wake up to.
A great distraction from the actual hell,
I woke up to escape from.

It's been a while,
Since I dreamt that dream.

'What's the dream?'
You may ask.

Oh do not ask.

There was no woman.
There was no monster.
No unbind lake-bed memories.
No meat cutters in the kitchen.

I wasn't falling nor flying.
The ground was steady and barren
with shards of broken rock.

I put a cigarette between teeth,
leaning on the balcony as the static continues.

It's nothing really.
Nothing interesting at least.