She Dreams

An italian sonnet. Completely fictional, by the way. She is not Me.

Toes sink into the sandy dreams of night,

Dreams that look like amber glaze of summer,

Dreams of passing storms, of rain and thunder,

Dreams that linger in the dark until light.

Dark too these dreams may be, terror and fright,

Silent screams of dreams that horrify her,

Remembering that awful thing under

Her memory's brick wall, hiding from sight.

She wakes unknowing of the sights she's seen,

Tears rolling down her sheet-creased cheeks so red,

Breathing quickly, startled, sitting wide-eyed,

Leaving her to question what these dreams mean.

She searches to find the scars that once bled.

Dreams aren't dreams, but memories we hide.