Sleep descends like a bridal veil,
gossamer, pale, and translucent,
like the vine-vein traced eyelids,
trimmed in dark lace, falling.
Dreams are solid, all too real
to those who dream with open eyes.
I dreamed a single, silent flame,
close enough to warm the glossy night.
Whisper, or you’ll wake the sleeper
and brush away the drifting dreams,
break them like filaments of silk
with that errant vibration.
I can believe what I see in sleep,
the wisdom of the silence,
breathing in echoes of echoes of echoes:
Like the fall of dice, or cards drawn,
each random synapse fires
with a certain aim, a touch,
a nightly glow of prophecy.