We sleep like children,
The floor sticks up,
Like jagged mountain peaks.
We slumber in a valley;
Still the change is subtle.
We become visitors to our own reality;
How could vivid experiences be so cold?
And warm to the lost soul;
Yet we awake and forget.
Should innocence be so prized;
When not restricted to the unrealistic?
I am an explorer when I awake;
And others rest like children.
My eyes are open, but I am dreaming;
I fear that my friends will converge into a funeral party.
Should I escape so completely;
While still fully waking.
To be reclusive, to the strangest scrutiny so unrefined.
The poets fingers work like a weavers;
Bringing together the world and dreams.
So one does not have to fear the convergence of friends.
But in the haste, the poet can neglect that they are unlike all others.
And the funeral is in the brain;
And the body is still sleeping.
The greatest pain, in creating worlds;
Is knowing that it’s merely an escape into the brain.
Where you’ve always been;
Sleeping like children.