The dreamer falls face forward
On his sturdy bed;
The golden thread sheets and soft
Feather pillows rest his head.
The dreamer has a penchant
For finding the north star in the cloudy night,
He thinks the best gifts come in small boxes,
That the fireplace is the brightest kind of light.
The dreamer ascends sleepily
Up the glass staircase,
The mystique of heavenly angels
Fosters a liking for the place.
The dreamer always awoke
With the taste of peace on his tongue,
He believed each man had a voice
And to each his song to be sung.
The dreamer looks back,
The dreamer looks ahead;
The dreamer looks down and
Sees his room, his sturdy bed.
The dreamer lives with disillusion;
He pensively awaits each new day,
Hoping that tomorrow is better:
More colorful, less grey.
The dreamer counts the seconds till twilight
When he can rest his head and lay,
He escapes, if even only a few hours,
The cruel wrongdoings of the day.
And he dreams.