Sadness seems so real in sleep, but disappears on waking
|Reverie to Sadness
Predator of the unseen,
Mismatched twin of calamity
Whose ageless power
To write pitiful scripts in dreams,
Poisoning the heart,
Coloring feelings with murky silhouettes of pain.
Roguish shadow of repose
With no tools of guile,
Slipping with obsequious cunning
Between the heart and mind.
By gloved hand orchestrating
An unreal reality, narcotizing reason,
Gripping the heart with carnivorous lust
For brooding residues of life's wounds,
Hence your magic
In the nether world of dreams.
For there I walk through
A thousand fires,
And feel no pain, nor blister feet,
Traverse the heavens
Conversing secrets with primordial gods,
Die a thousand deaths,
And yet arise anew on waking
With receding sensations evaporating
As smokeless thoughts.
Let me but see the phantom image
Of one loved in life or lost to death,
Or any misfortune suffered
Along the path of living,
There comes in sleep the same feelings of grief
That haunted a sickened heart
In real life from the first instance,
And remain so on waking,
A present sadness of yet so long ago.
Why are we so helplessly
Unable to dispatch the emotional pain in sleep
As we do the physical counterpart when we wake?
But reason too raises from the heart's ashes,
A harsh antidote to virulence,
Shaking off the stupor
With the suns of new days ahead,
And finds deeply embedded talons slipping
By courageous love of life
And all its confusing possibilities.