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I woke, and in a voice unlike my own, I spoke,
"Am I having nothing more than a dream,
and my heart deceived by a reverie in a cloak?”
I beg, tell me things are not what they now seem
and that these last hours spent held in rapt passion...
were they an illusion and not what I deemed real?
Were I to see my face in a mirror, would it be ashen?
I'm not at all certain about the emotions I feel.

If I have dreams within dreams, how fragile and fleeting.
And if I should wake to the reality of being all alone,
then the purpose of having them is entirely self-defeating.
I shall punch my pillow as a foe, sigh, weep and moan
without returning to my reverie, refusing to slumber on.
I'll never wish to be a spying voyeur in my own dream,
a mere object of affection, on the chessboard, a pawn.
No, the thought of that fantasy is a nightmarish scheme.

What was I thinking before I closed my eyes and slept?
If it causes dreams like these, then wake me in my bed,
if from rival night visions that found cause to intercept.
But if perchance they're rhapsodies, leave me, instead.
It's not within the realm of an impossibility, I suspect,
but it would be a less than perfect aspiration I would seek.
To live in a dream inside a dream, I'd have want to reject.
For the dreamworld of others, I dare not judge nor speak.

If I cannot dream peacefully of where I wish to be
then give me constant sunlight so my eyes never close.
And please nudge me if I doze. Pull the blanket from me
so never shall I dream again, nor smell the scent of a rose.
Worthless would be my dream state without aspirations
of finding a fairytale love, in a dreamscape for my pleasure.
One in which I feel love's tender emotions and sensations,
each enjoyed for its own affectionate merit and measure.

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