Rough around the edges,
Torn at the seams.
Fragments of a broken dream,
Creep past, hold fast to the door of reality.

The haze clouds my vision,
Unable to see, I merely weep.
There’s the door, cracked slightly.
Light pours in from outside.
It seems warm, inviting.

I’m running, running, towards the door.
I can feel the wood under my fingertips,
And push, push so hard my knuckles bleed.
I can taste the copper in my mouth.

The fog lifts, and I sit, panting in my bed.
No torn seams, no rough edges, only a clear cut path.
I understand that reality is not warm, or inviting,
But being lost to a world of dreams is like being lost in a sea of haze.
 
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