Dreams are
the last outposts
of reality
camouflaged
airy nothings.

Who knows what
this night
holds for me
a promise of fulfillment
or a surplusage
of castrated
dreams.
She stirs
and groans
perhaps for
some more reassurances.

And outside my
window
the tree whispers
abominations.

My white pomeranian
barked thrice
and fell into
nocturnal silence.