Out of Breath

In my dream, a wise old man reads my palm and then warns me of apocalypse, sufficient turbulence to wake me up dizzy with sweat and fear. God, where is your saving grace? I then notice the clock on my table: 3:45. Is life worth living, and saving? Countless ideas circle my head, like so many wolves smelling blood. I fall sleep again, only to dream I'm a headless scarecrow in the field waving the vultures away, but only for a moment, and each time they grow bolder, hungrier for my flesh rotting under the sun, until finally I close my eyes and bid farewell to the world, feeling the pinch of vultures' bites, until nothing but bones remain and I'm handed a pen again to write my own obituary, with nice self-fulfilling words like 'courage under fire' and loving husband and father, a true patriot. But, wait the ink is out and I now dip it in my own blood, to venture a word of caution: approach death with blinking light, it might issue you a hefty ticket.