Strange things dare to appear in dreamland with sands of time flowing above,
Somehow, somewhere to dare sleep slip away lest she have something to say,
After all, night is day in the fertile fields of dreamland as spacious as my soul,
Yet there is an ubiquitous emptiness in the fullness of the mystic meanderings,
Wanderings wondering where we are going in, around and through absurdity
As odd broken thoughts flit about here and there in the eclectic eccentricity
That only a sleeping psyche can conjure without conjecture in senseless beauty
In dubious duty to slumber so sanguine, never languid, causing anguish of mind
In binding it to such bizarre bazaars of mixed recollections and new tales told
Without rhyme or reason in the lullaby season in treason against rationality,
But this is dreamland, after all, where the banality of my reality is left behind
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