I awoke, with my mouth dry
from dreams I had writ
as my waking mind slept
and my sleeping mind, adept,
created realities of worlds where clouds shone and trees
wove shelters above us, as crimson skies wept.
I awoke with my tongue swollen tight,
heavy with the words I had uttered unaware;
tales that I no longer recall,
But that burned as they left their home in my heart.
The memories, my own, merged with the world's,
demanding an audience, compelling a teller.
Ignorant upon waking,
my tongue fell still.
I awoke, beyond tired
from the miles I had trudged
in my bed. Travelled continents unchartered
creating, in my own, a cartographer's dream;
lands whose names inspire deserts and oceans
and the flaws in smoky cystal-cut glass,
each a glimpse of the Garden, perhaps.
Melting on waking,
as all proper dreamscapes must.
I awoke and lay, prone,
waiting for the dreams to return.