handfuls of air

In my earliest dream, I shelter

in my mother's arms

as she rocks me to sleep,

singing a cosmic lullaby

as we float past a dark galaxy,

forgotten except for the dying glow

of a few weak and lingering stars

that light her kind face,

but the starlight loses strength,

and the melody begins to sour,

and her hair dries and curls,

and her skin wrinkles and greens,

and her eyes glow with venomous glee

as she fills space with merciless cackling

and bares sharp dripping fangs,

and I stare up in terror as

the last light in existence

flickers out.