We walk in sleep and talk in dreams,
of things which are not what they seem.
Somnambulistic strides and then
repeat ourselves and drift again.
But sometimes through the creatured world
that occupies our time, and holds
us ‘prisoned in vacuity, we hear a voice
which pierces clear, through nightmared life
and endless fear to waken us; veracity.
Yet in the night of endless days,
so many turn and settle still,
convinced the voice that pierced their dream,
could not have been completely real.