My head is thick with clouds.
The sounds coming from the stereo blend
Into a warm blur of hope.
But when the beast from underneath the sand stirs
I must play dead.
The music stops.
The hope is cut short.
Thoughts seep in
And ferment.
I know I must play dead
But the beast knows too well
The dead's heart can never beat so loudly.
My fear and troubles always scream
And the beast rests itself on my chest.
I cannot breathe
And the beast knows it.
Soon,
I will not have to play dead.