It is she, again.

Angst ridden rants of a sleep paralysed specimen.

Curled up like a shrimp, I sleep
To the hush lullaby of distant winds.
Concealed under the diaphanous sheets,
A tranquil trance on my cradle neat.
The Teak door creaks, whines and moans,
A hard run breeze assaults her ribs.
Some rich gloss leaks from the orb of night,
And scantly veneers the floor inside.
An agile stir, my eyelids squint,
Loathing to stare the dead of night.
A swift slant at half open door, I curse
Intestinal fortitude. Damn, what I see !
Cold sweat trills, down the temple raps,
Feet teetering on the brink of torpor,
Fingers fizzle, heart flounders and
The ball of fire in deep skull quavers.
A voluptuous form, beguiling indeed,
Strides onward,chanting an aria of her own.
Plopping down by my frosting knees, she strokes
my cheeks that stiffen with unease and terror.
The heaviness hikes, my forehead shudders.
Angst hidden underneath my flesh oozes,
With every diabolical shear upon my neck.
Shedding invisible tears at vain attempts
To gasp fresh air and gain a spoon of life.
Owning a latched body and a clamped mind,
A game, I am, to the ogre besides.
Decade back, she made a scene on a pitch dark night,
Sending bouts of dread down my choking throat.
All set to plunge her nails acute, 
to savour my vital body juice under the night tide.
It is she, again.