I used to awaken,

fragile heart pounding.

Shaken beyond measure,

tiny hands would check to ensure

I was truly breathing... 

Then run to make sure he was, too.

As a small child,

I spent the dark hours 

learning how to best escape 

reoccurring nightmares 

before they could end in death.

How to evade the malicious miscreant,

How to outsmart each butcher and ruse, 

How to deny the satisfaction 

of those familiar faces, 

eagerly awaiting to applaud

my public execution.

As I grew, so did they.

Mind play, morbidity, weaponry,

aggressiveness of other players,

all evolving, all increasing,

challenging my capability to do the same.

It became common.

Expected.

Normal.

{On occasion,

I internally gloated.

Externally smiled.

Impressed by what I'd pulled off,

Or nearly failed to.}

After almost twenty years,

of mastering the dream state,

I began to heal conscious wounds.

Today I awaken from simple dreams,

yet subtle with comfort and content.

I'm horrified when I finally open my eyes

And remember this reality is actually mine.

Sinking, sickened, startled; yet I can

no longer affect

when I leave the subconscious realm.

A torture more striking

Than any blade.

I am soft to this backwards terror.

I'd bid welcome the nostalgic brutality,

undoubtedly, and with deepest relief,

Yet knowing its regression at root...

Or maybe the terms of progress 

Need re-defining.