To tread upon waking dreams is a perilous profession,
will any dare to trace the silver streams of slumber?
Be inxoticated into tettering terribly out of reach
from friends fancying a sober sincerity from you, yet
you go on in this simple solitude swerving away from comfort.
You are bothered by the lure of logical lullabys
and wish wastefully on fretful fantasies.
You've become tired too young to count
quickly you fade into the patterns placed in this peom
knowing that it means nothing, never knowing it was created from nothing
and from the nothing it was bread and born, it will be again.
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