Come three in the afternoon
I start to swoon a little
And must crawl back into bed
For my rendezvous with the dead
Who prefer the secrecy of dreams
Where they can let themselves be seen
Alive in their neighboring sphere
Under the cover of sleep
Where a parallel life persists
In mysterious pictures and moods
Of something truer realer
Struggling to break through
To this harder thicker side
Where dreams must live and die
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