The Nightmare

Had wanted it to happen, 
without me. 

Remorse was turning against 
the self. It was growing very large. 
You could feel the enormity of a 
suicidal microcosm, enveloping you in its borrowed light― 
and rugged terrain. 

The peace― it was absolutely absent 
in the myriad stars, earthen lamps, 
the ethereal beauties of unspoilt hymns. 

The spirit was gone. It was all 
a floating skeleton of man searching 
for the real legs, natural eyes, and 
a roving heart. 

I wanted to pause, in the penultimate 
explosions, when the tornado 
dies and I would wake up.