By Olivia Hooper

It came in the middle of the night,

when everything was quiet and the moon

was floating with the clouds.

When I asked for the Dream, it came

 ugly, wild, abstract.

Whether I was ready for it or not, it came.

Then, I awoke mid-dream in the twilight.

I asked the tiny fan in my room why

he hums so loudly,

and I glanced red-eyed out

the window noticing the strong oak, so I said,

“excuse me, Tree, is this still my Dream?”

Because if it is, that would explain

why the shadows creep up the wall

and crawl, snarling towards my bare feet.

And if it were just a Dream, I would not need to worry

about my family or my future or this

world until I numb myself enough to fall back asleep.

I’d already be back asleep.

Yet as the oak groans back in reply, I know

this is not my dream – the shadows of this world

 are real – and he convinces me to leave

him alone and go back to sleep.

I vanish in the bedsheets.