Sweat Dreams Are Made of This

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Not all dreams are real.

Those that are,

They were all lies.

Night gave to light,

As does mortar to ivy.

Shimmering shadows lance

Through daybreak's sigh.

Songbirds usher forth

Whisperings unto fae ears.

Some rejoice at the tidings,

The harbinger's summons.

Others take their solace,

The knowledge of fresh songs

Travelling on the breeze.

There is one yet lost,

Lost in melancholy tones,

Trapped in torments of yore.

Clumped, disheveled hair,

Hollow visage that notices,

But sees nothing,

The soul can be seen,

But it cannot be embraced.

Its sockets remain lifeless,

Devoid of all purpose,

Left only to madness,

Lost in thought, all alone.

The study is barren,

Save but one stool.

Resting in the corner,

Shamed to have existed,

It waits for its master,

The master who gives it reason,

The one who calls it by name,

He who lets it know purpose.

On the stool, lies a tome.

The tome written by the one,

Whom the stool pays homage.

Yet that book knows the truth,

For in its folds,

The chosen has written all.

The soulless has spoken,

The passages respond.

They know his turmoil,

The congregate knows why he lies,

Lies yet on the floor.

The tome rouses the stool,

It must tell the stool the course,

For the stool's master has yet to rise.

"The soulless has lost all will,

All purpose, all meaning,"

The book tells the stool.

He remains lifeless in agony,

Waiting on the ground,

Waiting for some change,

A new happiness to be brought,

For his joy has left him.

"Little joy is found in,"

Mutters the stool,

"Labor that bears no fruit."

Still, the broken soul lies,

Alone in the study,

Save for a stool and a book.

Lifeless eyes gazing

Upwards to heaven.

His dream left him,

So he has left this dream.

Soon, light fades,

Departing for new lands.

Beasts of earth retire to slumber,

Showers cascade throughout all,

Laying the living to rest,

As a mother to infant.

So the night taketh back,

That which it gave up.

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