An innocuous dream nears a muddled climax.
A morning dawns.
Notionally, blinded by winter’s dark spell.
Trapped in a bed with two wrong sides.
I arise to confront my puppeteer.
The first string.
Draws the blinds on happy thoughts.
The others impose a dystopian dance.
The mind jerks in a trance.
As I brush away the plaque.
It plants bugs aplenty.
A canopy of dread for the day ahead.
Will my milk be the right warm?
How about that waffle?
Will we exchange pleasantries?
Or feud like a toxic couple?
Can I walk the tightrope?
Or will I trip and spew the venom I carry?
Can someone cut the strings?
I float like a feather to the hallowed tiles.
Skating gleefully down and across.
Now the master of my own strings.