The Figure in The Field

The dream haunts me.

I sit in the heart of an endless field,

A wide brimmed hat casting shadows over my eyes,

A wooden chair beneath me, worn thin by time’s hands.

In the far distance, a silhouette emerges,

Moving slow, yet its presence roars like a coming storm.

The air thickens, the earth holds its breath.

I raise my revolver, steady my aim,

But my finger, heavy as stone, cannot pull the trigger.

My strength drains like sand through open fingers,

The figure draws closer, closer still.

Just as it reaches me, I wake.

Left with nothing but the echo of its footsteps,

And the ache of an ending I will never know.

C.L. Freeland