Thoughts unwind and spill into
A reverie and as they do
They speak to me of troubled feelings
Camouflaged with cruel veilings.
Seeing, hearing...

To witness these with cool intrigue
Malignant slumber, by fatigue,
Has advertised a sweet repose
My heavy-lidded eyes will close.
Tripping, falling...

To once again traverse the plains
And observe those few remains
Of hidden truths, concealed desire
Fears no man could feign retire
Growing, turning...

To manifest themselves in scenes
Macabre inventions in my dreams
Do rear their ugly crowns once more
Till God Almighty I implore
Waking, weeping...

Blood engorged within my head
Chilled and still I lay in bed
While truth and fiction wind and mingle
Their braid I hasten disentangle
Praying, pleading...

The softest sound, in earnest spoken,
Dawn bestows a gracious token:
The Hand of Mercy, ever near,
In morning rays of light is beaming;
Lifts me from this sea of fear,
And from this journey I call Dreaming.

by Andrea Moyer

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