true pilot
I dreamt of light-years
inside a mountain's belly,
breathing carbon smoke
beneath the sullen skies.
A pale horse rode in my sleep,
It's breath cold, and eyes hollow,
It spoke of death and deeds,
My tongue tied.
'Abandon hope,' he wailed,
'For you'll rot too.'
Awoken once more,
On a bed of spray painted grace,
Woven with Lies and unease.