Dreams are at times the thoughts we have,
or they have us, thought, instead;
boundless in cerebration, refined
from ecstasy to dread.
We think ourselves alone, sometimes,
Alone, sometimes, we think;
we don't believe we know ourselves
until we glimpse that brink.
Gods are not rational, we suppose,
free to their own desires,
with us their subjects, so enclosed:
Now is what this transpires.
And you are all you are capable of-
the horror of betrayal-
you came before, and are so much more
than a wonder of the veil.
So love yourself with open eyes,
or choose to be the blinder-
seduced by rage as by a page
of scribbles in a binder.
Fear only that you are what does
not go beyond this triteness;
the mirror bore a visage for
your Reaper of the Brightness.