Litmus Test for the Long Dreamer

Nearly an hour ago I woke up
clamped by sweat at the thighs,
not sure if danger was in the day's
index or not: looked up, remembered
my glass of arbor, sweet condensed
oxygen to open up the vents down
in the basement where I return to,
letting the dream seep back into me.

Had I remembered details that mattered,
these next few moments could be spent
delving back into the divine prophesy
(for anything done to me is likely a prophesy),
but I spent the first critical moments of
being awake with the urge to record
dithering between the bathroom and kitchen,
deciding the race between my bowels and coffee.

The only things I remember were laying my life
down in the pursuit of a spectre, yes, she was
the princess locked away in a power suit,
and the ferocity of her concrete-chested dragon
scared so many shits out of me. His human skin
could not conceal what I knew was within.
I ran like fire, burning down the neighborhood.

The longer this takes, the farther I run away,
and the ashes that fall over me lying in bed
no longer hold a distinguishable scent.
I cannot remember the street, the heated chase,
or even the arrangement of her face.
That is the danger of my back pages.
Who am I meant to save today?