the bed is rimed with the grey salt of nightmares,
acrid smoke of bonefires in my throat.
rheumy eyed surgeons display rusted wares;
brown scalpels cut away the flesh-coat.
clutching gobbets of viscera excised
like a hopeless abortion, i flee
running through dank wet halls, brutalised,
shadows and distortion hunting me.
crows peck at my face and hands, crying out
understanding not how i move still
(expecting a free meal no doubt)
frustrated at their impotence to kill.
i don't think these dreams will ever end
as sure as my soul will never mend.