By Richard Mather
Dreams like girls in private rooms
beckon from windows
the souls of sleepers
who move shadelike through night’s
dark parade, eyeless and unspeaking.
Will-less and confused, some continue
adrift, but most consent
– if only dimly –
to partake of something strange,
a drugging of the body and the brain.
And if the sleeper is changed,
so too is the dream,
so that it may be
very much altered by morning’s light
unable to regain its initial face.
But those that hold their shape
across the hours
– night upon night –
are known as Forms, and are reckoned
by the others to bear blessings
and curses of eternity.
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