Loss

There is a nightmare
that wakes when I wake.
It looks in the mirror
over my shoulder
to ready itself for the day.
It follows too closely
behind as I descend the stairs
and whispers torture into
my ear while I sit eating
breakfast–or rather, stare
at the figure-eights I stroke
through my cereal bowl, hardly
seeing the brown squares
melt to mush, to a
deceptive marshland.

Then light casts a glare so brilliant
off the snow; I almost
suspect I'm in heaven,
although the darkness of dream
wreaths my heart with a chain
–only from this do I know
I'm drugged down.
Travel, walk, talk, focus,
it all pretends I've escaped,
but there is no fool
does believe the feast won't
resume the moment
I've slept.