Not poetry, but you have to go with the flow. This is for Ronovan’s Friday Fiction prompt: a dream.
The illustration is one I used the other day.
Perchance to dream. To sleep would be enough, to shut out the shadows that dart and creep from corner to corner while the moon hides among the clouds. Pain, dull and persistent is all there is, chasing sleep, banishing the bliss of oblivion. All is ache and tossing unavailingly, except the fear that the shadows might be real. There is noise in the fuzzy darkness, unaccounted noise like paws padding or nails scratching, but is it in the room, or in my befuddled head? The window is uncurtained and I see the sky, a shifting mass of rolling blackness, but clouds do not speak nor pad about a room.
The pain of loneliness joins the pain that the drugs are fighting and I sob in bitter anguish, wishing I could howl like a wolf. As if in sympathy, a vixen shrieks in the wood, and I reach out of my sluggish torpor to her, run the fields with her, slip silent and russet through the bracken. Click, scratch, scrape. I am not free, nor do I sleep. The fox is in a dream of her own and I fight the fear in the shadows.
Beyond the window, the cloud breaks, moonlight floods the room full of silver paws padding, and the shadows are not shadows at all. If I were a vixen, I would scream.