Sometimes I have dreams of ecstasy
where places they take me breathlessly.
Sometimes they console me fictitiously
when I wake up incidentally.

The incessant fabrication of loveliness
is never too less to convalesce.
For my waking life is nevertheless
the fear of another’s eternal duress.

The real nightmare is the awakening.
Of finding myself again — too hastening.
I want to slip back into the cradling.
The maternal comfort of disabling.

When I wake up there is only pain.
Where another man’s reign
is the name of the game.
And I’m just a pawn. An instigator in another’s domain.

For now though my dreams are protected
without the need of foreign subjection.
They are the capitals I’ve erected
from the suffering I’ve collected.

Whatever I find in life
always ends up in strife.
Should I be in a hive,
all would be deprived.

End the regime of Supremes.
Can’t we all just be on the same team?

But I’ll recede,
because in my dreams it’s easier to be happy.
In my dreams it’s regretfully easier to be happy.

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