And if I transferred my thoughts through pen to paper,
How will the words be read?
Will people perceive the lyric of said thoughts,
Or will they conceive only madness in my head?
These delicate fancies, born among dreams,
That impose their ideals on my mood,
They long to be shared and share them I shall,
In the hope that they be understood.
Bells that keep ringing in my ears,
With their maddening tinnitus torment,
Bring me to the realm of a dream within dreams,
Where reality and fantasy compliment,
To life and death, respective,
Their own points of view, to my own confusion,
As to what should be my directive.
As my heart warms to the prospect of romance,
My spirit flies cold on a lonely wind,
Searching the surreal hallucination,
Of a dream that leaves reality behind,
Among the imperfections and impositions,
As deemed to be normal among mortals.
Ah, but how can it be normal to feel so trapped,
In a world that offers no portals?
I close my eyes and converse with my dreams,
Trying to make sense of their substance,
For I know they are real, at least to myself,
Yet I cannot confirm their existence.
Like shadows, they flirt before my eyes,
Taunting and teasing my sanity,
Dangling hope like Damocles sword,
Exposing the hollowness of vanity.
How I long for the portal through which I can fly,
To escape from this mundane existence,
To a place where I can converse with my dreams,
In defiance of realities resistance.
Perhaps only Death can open said portal,
My dreams seem to hint at that truth,
Of the flickering candlelight in the distance,
That shall take me back to the love of my youth.