A horn across the water

Dislocated from those fabricated dreams that I, within, found sanctuary even if it was- A lone trumpet plays on the far beach. It is unaccompanied. It strikes in me a terror. I imagine it to be the horn heralding my death. The melody is solemn over the dark, deepening waters. Dislocated in the far interior of my heart? False. It was all constructed of the sand in my mind, built on the sand, and fading into sand it goes. False. I listen to the terror. It is pondering and sweet and it sings me a melody of the faraway and not-future. It should disappear into the nighttime. It does not. Dislocated.