Shadows at Dawn: The Matador's Nightmares

 In the stillness of night, where shadows play,

The Matador finds his peace fray.
Dreams once filled with verse and light,
Now turned to nightmares, fleeing from sight.

Each evening, as he lays down his head,
He battles the demons under his bed.
In his mind, a labyrinth, dark and deep,
Where fears whisper, and sorrows seep.

The dreamscape turns, a twisted stage,
Where nightmares dance with rage.
Visions of love lost, futures undone,
Battles with shadows, never won.

Annie's face, a recurring ghost,
Haunts him more than most.
The car wash, a prison of foam and spray,
In his nightmares, it won't fade away.

Africa's plains, so far yet near,
In dreams, they bring no cheer.
Prophets and poets, in shadows, they hide,
No guidance given, no matter how he tried.

Yet, as dawn breaks, the first light creeps,
Into the room where he wearily sleeps.
The Matador rises, his spirit worn,
Facing a new day, tired and torn.

But in this cycle of fear and fight,
He finds a reason, a spark of light.
For each nightmare that ends, brings a new day,
A chance to chase the shadows away.

So he writes, of darkness and of dreams,
Of silent screams and unseen seams.
In verse, he battles, his pen his sword,
A Matador fighting, his spirit restored.

• The Matador