Hay Bales, My Father, The Blister and The Blood

Amongst the fluffy pink clouds
that line my dreams,
lies a field, stacked with hay bales
with a circle of men sat upon them.

One is my father, his bushy moustache
hiding a taunting smirk,
while the others are faceless, without expression
their blank stares penetrating my soul.

I sit amongst the men, listening to their words
they talk of guns, and shooting deer.
I try to say something, but my father
shoots a glare in my direction, and my jaw is forced closed.

They talk more, of harming men,
hurting children, the innocent.
My father continues to stare
as a burning flares up on my heels.

My shoe removed, I see
a swollen red space on my foot,
and from it trickles a dark red ooze
and my father laughs with his comrades.

I wake up, sweaty and cold
and lift my heel to my face,
and there I see a burn on my heel
and my father walking out of the room.