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Upon a winged horse he flies
To spired castles in the skies
And there through star-lined halls he strides,
A fiery sword slung at his side.

The scabbard for this burning blade
From fragile dreams of love is made.
On his brow a golden circlet rests
Of high position to attest.

As misty floors pass ‘neath his feet
And he breathes the air so warm and sweet, 
He looks down on a war-torn earth
And his mind goes back to his kingdom’s birth.

A young man trapped inside a war
He could not find a reason for;
So confused by doubt he started to run
And found that his battle had only begun.

He ran so fast and he ran so far
Until at last he could run no more
And there in a meadow ‘neath pale moonbeams
He collapsed, exhausted, and started to dream.

Within an empty hall he stood,
The walls of clouds and not of wood.
The floors were all with stardust strewn. 
The beams were all of sunlight hewn.

Instead of a soldier’s olive drab
In silks and satins he now was clad.
Before him two golden doors swung wide, 
So gathering his courage, he strode inside.

Then morning came,
With the sun he awoke.
“I’ve got to go back.”
Were the first words he spoke, 
But sleep wouldn’t return
No matter how hard he tried, 
So lifting his sidearm
He fired…

Now when you look up to the clouds 
And they seem like a palace
Remember that king 
In the land of his dreams.

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