Slumbering, I; wrought with terror
Visions of pleasure: to fruition, never
Would enact such horrible pleasantries
Not I, upon such gentle folk
And continuing, swirling sweetly
Hallucinations acting treatly
Causing dizzying bouts of fancy
Cursing, nursing. Will there be no mercy?
Dreams abound, perfection lingers
Still I feel it’s tender fingers
As I wake, there’s the gag!
Alive instead, reality is dead
Who’s to say, where we are
Dream or wake, I see no bar
I live in dreams and sleep in life
No hope to spark, safe from farce
Tragic is, dreams untouched
Safer still within madness’ clutch
Slumbering, I; slipping slowly
Drifting doldrums dreary deadly
this isn’t part of the poem. I know it’s not right. Maybe it is and you don’t know it is. Maybe it’s not but I think it’s not and it is. Maybe it is and I think it is but we both know it’s not. Maybe I’m a little bit further than I thought.