Freefall into a cloud of dreams,
And you shall never find;
The ground you frantically searched,
Hidden in the dark, blind.
Blind, yet that ground exists.
Be it strewn with severed bleeding wrists.
A vortex may devour all life;
Ink may drip at the edge of the knife;
Or a dark sun may rise against a sky,
And none recall how, when, or why;
By the time the termites have nibbled away
At the remnants of the reality for which you once prayed.
Be silent, till you hear that wind roar,
Which shall carry you to the dreamkeeper's door.