Brenda laid her head down on the pillow
Wearied from the week she’d had
Grateful that she’d seen another
Trusting in life so deceptively that her routine to wake the next morning felt sure
She found herself eyes shut tight
Breathe in, breathe out
Off into the world of interim sleep
Where she sauntered slowly across the desert
The warmth sustained comfortably low
A temperature too perfect for too long to be real
For in a dream like this, pure pleasantries trailed
And she assumed, yet again
That the routine to wake would follow shortly after
Knowing not of her slowing heartbeat to ensue a few short hours into her innocent slumber
That would trap her in this stage of solitude eternally


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