In His hands, he held a rose.
With a thought, the rose became crystal,
Then, turned to gold.
The gold rose crumbled,
And turned to gold dust.
He turned the dust to sand,
Swirling floating writhing sand.
And with a puff of air,
He blew the sand across the world,
And the people slept.
While they slept, they dreamed.
He saw their dreams and made them real.
From a young boy’s dream,
He made a castle of clouds and leaves.
From a junkie’s nightmare,
He made a needle.
The needle became a snake.
He morphed the snake into a stick
And threw it away.
From a jilted lover’s dream,
He formed another rose.
This one, blackened by fire.
And so He sat, digging through dreams,
The same way He did every night.
Every inky black starry night,
He brooded, devouring the dreams,
And making them reality.
His kingdom was filled with these thoughts,
These half-dreamed snippets of humanity.
He walked among them,
Their master.
For He was Dream.
The Sandman.
Lord of Dreams and Nightmares.
Master of our sleeping realities.