The nightmare of death

is no longer the cold embrace

of the reaper's clasped hand,

but being engulfed

by the shower of man made fire.

Not just haunted by images

between fits of restless sleep,

but the ones flickered over

through living room screens.

The monsters of dreams and fantasy

are easily slayed

one swift hero's sword saves.

Though it is the monster of reality

that attacks us now,

and what is done then

when the monsters are men,

with armies blazing behind them?

You reach for that bony hand,

and seek out those folk-lore villains;

praying for the saviour.

You wish to fall deep

in those dreams you know end.

For the nightmare is now;

the realty is death.