a storm is coming.

the blinds shiver in the window.

I roll over in the warmth of my sheets as

the sharp bite of reality stings my skin.

wake up, it's morning

the sun's scream is muted through the clouds;

and every shade of grey is molted into husky blues.

you must face the coming storm.

hidden worries buried under a comfortable coat of happiness.

uneasiness burns the throat.

a lack of water-dryness.

leaving a parched residue lingering in every bone,

a dull throb in the soul,

offset with the beat of the heart.

it's a fairy tale ending and a wish come true.

all the right cards in hand, 

a poker face graces the face with exact poise.

it's a dream with sharp lines and a clear picture,

the edges comprehensible and simple.

a dash of the coming winter wind nips at my ears

an echo in the darkness, a whisper in the back of the neck.

wake up, it's morning.

you must face the coming storm.