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Sometimes my dreams are fatal
To myself or to others,
Though I’m not near the kind
To be macabre to my sisters or brothers.

I don’t claim to understand dreams.
I just let them come and go,
Fragments of a wartorn psyche.
In Halloween clouds, such shapes will grow.

Not to worry, not to fret.
With every sunrise comes a sunset;
With every sunset comes a sunrise
And forecasts of crisp, clear, November skies.

by S.A. Bort

illustration by Celia Birtwell