Thursday, April 28, 2011

After Tonight

To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

Hamlet said it like it was a plague: to sleep, perchance to dream. Granted, to take your life only to find you'd never rise again, but that your mind would forever swell in images and hauntings of all you knew and all you imagine you knew, would be quite the plague. Yet sill I find myself incapable of saying the curse without a smile of pleasant possibilities.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

And dream of you, figment of my subconscious, and the form you'll take tonight. Approach me on a dance floor and steal a kiss before you fly. Come calling with bread each morning. Leave a pressure on my cheek I still feel when I rise. Sit with me on a green couch, talking. Parade arm-in-arm with me through a grocery store, let me sing By The Sea on a dock. Steal me away as the sun touches the night. Let me call you mine.

But in that sleep of death what dreams do come! And I wake so refined and amazed. And love holds my hand in my heart, on my sleeve, but this love is myself. It's only me. Oh now, wretched bliss, take back all you gave. I'll have no more these feign fantasies. This world is too imperfect compaired.

Sweet peace, release.

To die, to sleep; to forever be free.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

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