I seem to live in my dreams
They’re my alternate realities;
A windmill turning out velvet ropes
to string my lungs to a willow trope.
I ask the dark to never leave,
and only now can I breathe.
This terror feels so welcoming;
the death of consciousness takes wing.
My mind awaits all day
for this empty cabaret,
the sweet leather kiss of my captor,
he puts me to sleep without laughter.
My newborn cocoon.