The Lust that Bites

That dream unknown as future grown into the dawn so unrevealed, so blissfully the light it gathers, so artfully the darkness scattered. I wait and breath, and never see the real dream that only ever stalks the reams of data, competing thoughts and half-held quaking fears of chalk in rain, the sleeper's horror that never finds. Like new born mouths to feed the thoughts demand more, me, me me! Though that dream is but the broken mirror, shards reformed to narrate the winner, always losing, always running, always killing and always numb. The woken moment begs the question, relives the horror of thought's congestion, holding phony bony fingers, pointing at the door, the shadow comes. Bring food, the lust that bites, the stomach that feeds and fuels the night, playing half-known, misunderstood, where others tread yet never stood.