Dreams

Dreams, which are heavy to hold
In this world, are light within their own.
Though we are but a passing fantasy
We do not know our true substance.

And light will not come without
suffering. No, the tears that we shed
Build up cities of gold-stained glass
Which in daylight seem profligate.

We are here only in the light of dreams
and when we go out to the world beyond
We vanish like the sun-torn mist.
Behind screens, bus windows, self-torture.

Not all mystics can be poets,
Nor can all poets be truly mystified.
The only time we are real is when we
live within the depths of dreams.