Some elusive yet persevering conception
Rouses them to phantasm from their restless beds,
Where somnolent incense of musk-breathing twilight
Weaves visions from the fabric of their illusion.
Filaments of reason twine into perception,
Filling with sweet opiate dreams their muddled heads,
Until they are oblivious to mortal plight,
Content to resign themselves in stark delusion.
Aimlessly wandering across an endless plain,
Where dry-throated winds whisper through the sweeping grass,
Where light and shadow blend in diverging grey shades,
They dwell in a realm that is neither day or night.
They search for answers though their efforts are in vain -
For no will of mind has ample force to surpass
The cloud of stupor into which perception fades,
As ethereal expectations veil their sight.
They slumber, but in their sleep find no true repose,
For they are never really awake or asleep.
Lost within an ever-shifting fog of fable,
They stumble along on a never-defined quest.
And whether they are alive or dead no one knows;
For the stream of all consciousness flows slow and deep.
And in their best reckoning they are unable
The certain truth of greater fiction to attest.
They try to fly, but in tempests of time are blown.
Amidst faceless ghosts calling for them to come back,
They wish they had the strength of mind to run away,
To flee an anguish eternally unrelieved.
But sleepwalkers search for what can never be known.
They wander through fate, following a forlorn track,
Seeking the direction from which they went astray,
Finding errant footsteps may never be retrieved.
Just for you...