Such disturbing themes
invading my dreams.
So callous it seems,
As I wake up in screams.

Future wild, not benign
It’s my will, it’s my time.
So don’t call it a crime
When I walk the thin line.

Nothing more here,
But panic and fear,
As I feel the spear,
stare at me in the mirror.

Not joyful, not proud,
Not excessive or loud.
Just a willowing shroud,
That’s out lost in a crowd.