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.
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