I dream of things chasing me:
tornadoes roaring across flat prairies
dinosaurs rushing at me across eons
unseen assailants I can’t escape.
And then, waking, are the things of life
the tiny thieves that steal pieces of peace,
bits of being, little slices of soul.
This death by a thousand paper cuts,
this world that bids me run faster, faster,
and the knives waiting at the finish line.