Fear, the maker of dreams,
Of what seems to be reality
Often leave me in screams,
Fatally afraid of my mortality.
Morality not in question
I forge ahead in my temerity,
Heedless of resolution
Resolutely accepting intensity.

At each preposterous scene
I react as if I am undeserving
Unable to know what it means
Pretending they’re not unnerving.
Just like in my waking real life
I try to tough it out and brag
But my villainy is cut with a knife
The specter keeps in a velvet bag.

I want so badly to wake up
But the dream gave me a potion
To drink from a bejeweled cup
Filled with a delicious poison.
And the other specters are sweet
Speaking in enticing voices.
The follow me with silent feet
Viciously narrowing my choices.