Tense

Dreams of wind fall neatly upon pillows
as shadows whisper in tongues now hollow
of a trying darkness that holds firm to light,
like a shackled soul drenched in cold delight.

Winter pores pour plenty - impure,
a salty concoction that fear does procure
whilst muscles tense and eyes draw wide,
the mind wakes to find the many inside.

A sword is drawn, but the hilt is broke,
the blade is dull and the throat dries - choked.
A lighter air is but feet away,
too rich for such lungs of the modern day.