In a dim-lit room, lay a maiden asleep,
her legs drawn to her chest with a pillow between;
a gentle light reveals thought on her face;
Irregular breathing; must be a dream.
Her dreams are a thing of enchantment; she waits for them all day;
Her dreams are always an escapade, each one better than the other;
Her dreams are oft fantastic, breathtaking and unbelievable;
Her dreams destroy the line between real and illusion.
But then, there are those dreams that can only be dreams;
And then there are those that echo her deepest fears;
And those that show her truth, however bitter;
And those that are better off being just dreams.
She dreamt of the Halley’s Comet once and flesh-eating dinosaurs;
She dreamt of betrayal and of being trapped;
She dreamt of bliss; in bright colors;
She dreamt of problems and unearthed solutions.
Each dream, she thought, made her live a little more;
Each dream, she thought, was a parallel world;
Each dream, she thought, was a journey;
Each dream, she thought, was real in this illusive world.