An Old Dream: The Restraining Bolt and the Subway Orphans

Since I'm on a dystopian sci-fi/fantasy future kick, and I've been telling my dreams, I am remembering a very old dream I had.  This has to have been about 20 years ago that I dreamed this.

I used to dream a recurring dream that I was in a building in a city.  Maybe like on the 4th or 5th floor, and looking out the window.  First I would see that the streets were filled with white dust, like the city had been bombed.  Nobody would be around.  Then I would witness an auto/pedestrian hit and run accident where a lone car would come careening down the street (which for some reason was clear enough of rubble to allow a car to pass) and hit a child who was standing there, then go roaring off into the distance.  The city looked a little like pictures of Dresden after the Allies fire-bombed it.

The scene would change and I'd be down in a subway station.  The trains would not be working, although I guess the lights must have been on because it wasn't flashlight time.  The whole city was basically a post-apocalyptic ghost town, and the only ones left were armed gangs and groups of orphan children hiding in the subways, their faces caked with the same white dust that was everywhere.  Usually the dream involved trying to get from one train station to the next by walking through the tunnels, while avoiding the gangs and trying not to let my heart break from the orphans. 

But this particular dream had a twist.  In this dream I had some kind of "restraining bolt" attached to my chest, like a flesh version of C-3PO.  As soon as I got to the next train station and successfully hid while one of the gangs passed by, I ripped this restraining bolt off.  As soon as I did, I blurted out a long poem I made up on the spot.  The restraining bolt had been keeping me from being creative, I guess, and it was all backed up waiting to burst out.  When I woke up, though, I couldn't remember the poem, but I kind of wish it was this 14th century charm vs. nightmares that a fellow who went by the moniker of Biker Bob once taught to me:

THA MON O´MICHT OND THA MARE

Tha mon o´micht, he rade o´nicht
Wi´neither swerd ne ferd ne licht
He socht tha Mare, he fond tha Mare,
He bond tha Mare wi´her ain hare,
Ond gared her swar by midder-micht
She wolde nae mair rid o´nicht
Whar aince he rade, thot mon o´micht.