In slumber’s theater, curtains rise,
A sudden spark—my senses blind,
The architect of dreams, I devise,
Escaping life’s grip, time rewinds.
I seize the script, a god bemused,
By fleeting powers I’ve abused.

Within those worlds, the laws are naught,
Time bends, and colors softly spin,
Lost lovers, truths I never sought,
Reappear, then fade again.
I shape each scene, yet wonder still—
Who scripts the dreams I cannot will?

Epochs collapse with every breath—
I wander Rome as empires fall,
See volcanoes erupt, unleash their death,
Pyramids rise and deserts sprawl.
Past, future, present intertwined,
All history reels inside my mind.

I walk on water, taste the sky,
Sculpt regal towers to the heavens,
I leave behind what rules deny,
And transcend pain my waking life threatens.
Yet every pleasure I command
Dissolves, unwitnessed, without remand.

For when the morning light appears,
That vibrant realm falls to despair,
Its stolen wonders drown in tears—
I meet the day stripped, pale, and bare.
The master of imagined flight
Stands blinking, blinded by the light.

Waking reminds with rough embrace
How fragile all dominion seems;
The echo lingers, leaving traces
Of vanished lands and secret schemes.
Yet in the still within each day,
The dream’s design will slip away.

So seize the reins—if you so dare—
And forge a dream beyond compare,
But know the haven that you seek
Will render waking hours bleak.
For in that flawless, fragile space,
Your shadow waits, you can’t erase.

In dreams, I resurrect what’s dead—
Only to mourn what’s lost instead.