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His lids fall heavy to the cheeks
Finally letting go
He lost again.

Midnight darkness tightly
Wraps around his shoulders
Blankets over his mind
Lulling it into a deep
unwanted sleep.

A crawling, growing shadow -
His nightmare returns
like dust to the windowsill.

In the mirror he sees
His image –
Made of clay,
Living and breathing
Colorless
Odorless aura
Swirls around him
He lowers his gaze
To his neck,
Shoulders, his veins
Undulate with each breath.
He knows what is to come.

Crimson vessels like vines
Torn, waiting to berth,
Reaching for the pier
That is there no more.

A perfect box
Cut out and stolen,
Leaving behind a void -
A throbbing window.

His own bellow
Thrust him awake,
Icy drops of sweat
Stinging his flesh.
The clay shell vanished.

And he still knows what is to come –
Another layer of dust on the windowsill.