RA DeVito Sep 12
I've dreamt of lands,
far and beyond,
Where mourning doves
do sing a song
that is absent of the sadness
which has plagued the one's I've known.

And, here, the days
are longer, so,
In night there's peace
I've never known,
Where little children do not sleep
in fear of monsters perched below -

Their little beds
are filled with naught
but the sounds of restful sleep,
As imagination takes them on a trek
through gallant dreams.

And the nighttime gives to day
a long awaited,
sweet,
reprieve
in which the day may take admiring
all the beauties night conceives.

And, here, the stars shine brighter so
than any star I've ever known,
and, too, behind each twinkling light
there lies a promise in the night:

it's one which speaks of greater lands,
which we can't present envisage,

for anything we might conceive
would, so, fall short from where its come

And, so, they come to us in form of,
ephemeral, night-time, dreams.
Writ on August 12
RA DeVito Sep 12
In restful sleep I've wandered to a land far and beyond,
Where banes, which, present, ******* me, have left me - far and gone.
Where havoc and the woes of life drift off to nullity,
And the breaths I took, for once, for once, came in tranquility.

For, gone were my anxieties, and absent were all tragedies,
Rubs of which make living a great bane on my reality.
                                                        ­...
But, by morn's time, the waking from the dream blighted the peace I'd found.
Worries and pernicious troubles, soon flocked back: a pack of snarling hounds.
(From their mouths did drip my dreams, which had been tattered at the seams;
Left in a state of disrepair, of which did cause me to despair -
For nothing else I did much care, but had much longing for those dreams
Which were now gone, ripped at the seams)
                                                       ...
Alack! what is this life to those who've cast their eyes on better things which lay,
Beyond the fringe of this existence, a land which living keeps at bay?

'Tis but a walk of sullen gloom, of which feels much like hellish doom
Though trying, never to break through, until you're sleeping in your tomb,
Where all the learning, of the wise, are shut into your pallid eyes,

Where all the learning, of the wise, are locked behind your pallid eyes.
Inspired by the poem "A Dream," by Edgar Allan Poe
Writ August 11, 2018

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