Sweet Dreams

In dreams I am Icarus, cooked by the Sun of the day; in free fall, as the last black vestiges of subjective skepticism are charred off brittle distant/nonexistent skin, pulled down by the heavy gravity of sleep, approaching an annihilating oceanic subconsciousness. And the bubble, bursting, cakes up anything ever used as material for me, and the thing that is plummeting through the meniscus of oblivion is not me; and so a wounded animal somewhere recognizes its cage, comprised of high school lockers, as meant for a someone whom its guards cannot remember and have always failed to capture; and yea, though this creature is unfairly charged, it is yet tried for this forgotten someone's wrongdoings; hunted/haunted by the faces of that someone's acquaintances, and it has neither wits nor history with which to defend itself, only a crippling chestful of guilt; and so it bounds through this funhouse of horrors for eight hours at a time in an instant, until game is called and the hounds retreat, only to call rematch the following evening