Why drift in a dream land, when the world so lively?
Why wait for sleep, when the oblivion of morning interrupts those shadows?
So seemingly sad and tired, wandering eyes open, mind blank;
pretending to see where life's joys unfold, but all the while
the spirit teeming with stories of the wild,
feeling oppressed by the colourful walls of the city.
Fled to some Lovecraftian dream, sleep whispers of cities unheard
and meadows and forests from unimaginable distances
too strange and fay for the awakened to remember.
So they slip away with the rising sun
leave small patches for a while.
Once gone forever those visions
make the day chilly and drab;
wishing to be somewhere else, a faraway path
to the next unknown,
but the only surprises are the wonders
and disappointments of daily interactions.
And only in glimpses when the woods are singing
is there content & rest.
\\ H.P. did not only write horror, just to clarify. This place 's gettin' dusty and quiet - 't has almost a certain quality, as far as a neglected poem-blog can. Ex oblivione
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