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The Waking Dream
Once during the latest night
Of the longest day in the asylum
We were all lying in various states
Of living and dying dreams
When the mystic I had called out to
Brought his bag of tricks to me
And whispered the ways of alchemy
Turning the dark into light
And I awoke in a pouring sweat.
Now I wander riddled hallways
Never lost, always where I am.
I touch the impressionistic walls
As the colors swim and the lanterns laugh
And I marvel at the sights,
The wonderful vibrance of this waking dream.
I see that it is no longer night
But always a breaking dawn
On the other side of the horizon.
I see the sleepwalkers there, too.
Wandering lost through their nightmares
Taking the same wrong turns
Down the same riddled hallways.
But I know they are distant
Even as they draw close to me
And I know that I can see them
But can never touch them
For you should not wake the sleepwalkers
And you cannot wake the dead.
