Broken Bones

My dreams appear as nightmares. Delusions I am told. A taste of bittersweet memories from a past that's getting old. A past that's rushing past me and will not deliver the mail. An ex-mailman with a future that's now crawling like a snail. Digesting my lifes horrors is how I once made my bed. Chewing on the substance of a future left for dead . Memories like invaders attack me in a dream. So real I can't awaken before I slip inside a scream. Why should I care just how my bed was made? Gather all my broken bones at the open mouth of the grave.