I touch your cheek, its stone cold to the touch
I wanna make you see, that I love you this much
We need to make this cash babe, we really have to eat
Future plans take shape, when you climb into his backseat
I really do love you girl, I promise that I really really do
In the mirror give a wee twirl, before you pay your dues
And you can pay me,
And please me,
Because I love you Hannah, and you know that its true

Talk to me Hannah, you've been silent all night
Talk to me baby, I can make you feel alright
Why are crying girl, I got you your fix
The daylight is here babe,
You don't have to turn tricks
Here sweet thing, take a hit of this
Yes young girl, now that's real bliss

Not too much now, what are you trying?

(Wake up Hannah, I think you may be dying)

The sleep sentence ends in a period of vivid imagery.
The ****** is how the end of the dream resembles reality.
There is no denouement, but always something to be learned.

The conclusion is always the same.  Awakening, using what has been
Experienced in the dream to influence the journey in life itself.
Wondering, what are the purpose of dreams? It is not a question that is worth pondering.

Walking the tightrope of lucid dreaming, risking the fall into consciousness.
Opening of the gates to hell from confinement, losing the battle to find meaning.
Crying for the dream to return, left in hopelessness, despair.

Reality is the ***** of life, and dreaming is its procurer.  
Constantly controlling the outcomes, the path of life is always forged
Between the forests of dreams.

This procurer of underage tail
made the Post, and then later, the Mail  
Let us sing our refrain
for recruiter Ghislaine:
we would like her detained without bail.

While her In-N-Out burger went cold,
Madame Maxwell was looking quite old.
Let her smile for the Times;
and then pay for her crimes
after all of her secrets are told.

You learn, and generally to your discontent
That wishes and horses have much in common
Each likely to prove less than obliging
To take to the bit and bridle
No matter how fine the metal and leather may appear
And should the procurer demur,
He may find there are provisos and caveats
Governing that which can’t be recanted
Returns and refunds being frowned upon
As such items, being one of a kind,
Custom accoutrements which only one can don
And regrettably one is apt to find
That you may not have found a perfect fit
And once it breaks, you’ll find you bought it.

I'm down then beveled. I'm subservient yet sassy. I'm intermittently invisible to sonar (not radar nor magnetic imaging). Oriental society entreats me to success. When I'm out (out of my cave which requires no roof maintenance), I'm of the chance-taking, heart-attack faking, mausoleum-shaking caliber that killed Dad deader than Dirk Bogarde & Yoko Tani.

Inwardly introspect
Technical fouls
Still checking myself
Like a courtship of owls
And towering over my head
Ego reigns
I profess it with fiery sermons
Enraged
At an enemy
Memory
Bending me
Mentally
As I awaken
The madness in melody
Never exceed,
Never bleed
Dry of life
Save the need
To see fiends
At the edge of a knife
Let the steeds
In their stampeding tumult
Proceed,
Let the siege
Bring to ruin
Their temples of greed
Let tempestuous tyrants
Command hurricanes
I will summon the depths
To devour their claims
For the nameless one
Gave me a face
And its features
Erased its facade
My visage
Is the reaper
Procurer of withering souls
In the soil
Demurrer to furors
That free me in toil  
For only through struggle
Have we then progressed
May this echo
A Testament
To its unrest