Amy's Dream

I sat at the kitchen table,
To await my morning tea.
I seek what is real, no fables.
Observe what happened to me.

A crash and a clang
Sang lightly above my head.
The sound was sharp, a slight pain
From what the ceiling shed.

I looked above to receive
What I had not asked for.
My eyes hid behind my sleeve,
As the strange rain poured.

There were vases and plates,
And forks and spoons.
There was glass and tile slate
And no more room.

This clutter remained falling,
And it broke all around.
In vain, I was calling.
No one heard a sound.

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