Sonnet #33

There's a dream that comes at night,

Where demons come to take from me

My imagination holds a feathered light

The monsters cackle, sets it free

They have new faces every time,

Last night it was a Viking God,

A twisted mask of wood and bone

Sometimes they're bears, feral, broad

Other times, they're birds of pecked fruit

But always slipping out with something

Cackling, gloating, dancing, endless hoots

When I wake, I recall only theft, not the thing.

What is stolen? I don't know - as if it's never 

real, a hole in hope, a dreamscape of a sever.