Miasma

The daunting tremors as I wake,

returned to time in its proper place.

Though recollection escapes the comfort of my grasp,

the aching slumber calls me back.

Be it a fault in my mind, removing itself from me?

Pale deliberations, delicate as parchment sheets,

dispersing into ashes, upon a mountain's peak.

Miasma come, and put me under,

sing me back to sleep.

On this side, a viscous mist.

I taste the gray,

endless abyss.

No longer mine, in mud and mire,

my soul awaits my form to tire.

When I awake, I'll ask again,

what takes me over in the end?

What horrors lie within my dreams?

Within the silence that I seek.

I fear I've grown dependant,

on the terror plaguing me.

Miasma come, and put me under,

sing me back to sleep.