Guess what my muse’s recurring nightmare is.

     { ●•۰•☯•۰•● }

     they are right. the feel of rough burlap brushing against her shoulders as she exits the tent often replays over and over and over again in her head through the night. her coat too heavy on her body drags her down until her knees hit the snow ( a white so soft she could bury her face in it regardless of the biting cold ) and she hears that sound — the sound of a world imploding, a life drawing to a close. and when she opens her eyes her tears are clumped with wetness, like dew on spiderwebs, face stained with tears and body pouring sweat. often times she finds no solace in the grasp of the sheets beneath her or the comfort of a shower — often times she shuts her eyes and buries herself in the dream, enduring those final moments so that when the nightmare comes again she can find some sort of satisfaction in getting to see her mother’s face one last time before the dawn comes and she must return to reality.