Gasping for Air

No small potatoes are these dreams
that serve to rip apart the seams
of blessed sleep that drifts my mind
down roadways of a gentler kind.
Dread closes off my throat in fright
that I will not survive this night.
Prickles of fear cause neck to seize.
I run outside, seeking a breeze
to fill my lungs pinched off by fear
that my death is growing near,
shifting those stories in my head
to twisted tales of breathless dread.
I shift to hammock and cooler air,
breath coming easier out there,
my glassy eyes opening to
that stillness that comes into view.
Black night replacing former views
that now my memory eschews.

For The Sunday Whirl 761the word prompts are:
runner potatoes road drifting twistedpinch glassy prickled neck shifted still