Sometimes I dream that I am being hunted;
a wild rabbit
frantically and narrowly
escaping death
At every irregular turn.

The hunter is shapeless,
nameless,
faceless;
an amorphous enemy
lurking in the foggy haze
of my unconscious terror,
stalking my every panicked move
with an untwitching, cold gaze.

I want to stop running,
the blade grows closer;
I want to turn around,
my breath becomes sharp and jagged;
I want to know who you are.

I awake in a cold sweat,
gasping for thin air.

What a thrill
to have escaped your knife
yet again.