A disillusioned nightmare knocking at my door,
creeping slowly,
gaining on me,
skidding through the floor;
fragility is fractured,
hallucinations are a hoax,
and it’s certain that clouds,
not blood clots, were meant to float,
so when the mirror curves,
like a dagger for the conscience,
every nerve frays like an abandoned fabric,
torn, shredded, limp and unseemly,
even night terrors are afraid of scathing reality.