Who's that knocking at my door?

The gentle bull of childhood
lies beneath the cork tree,
dreams of endless sun stoked fields, hills
that roll and stretch to eternity.
In time, you must wake,
prepared or not,
to feel
the morning
seeping
into your life
like an
oozing wound.
Fight,
you might, or
turn back
into sleep,
but the house around you
shall crumble into dust,
and reality will join you

in bed.