Followed

Night after night, the
skies lower, turn black.
With a shrieking roar,
the clouds snatch me out
of the nice dream I've
been having and fling
me into the storm.
Screaming awake, I
see my nightmare has
followed me into
the day: the skies are
lower, turning black:
as long as I don't hear
the shrieking roar, I'll
be okay. I hope ..............

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman