It was a suicidal Prince of Denmark—
Hamlet was his name—who observed that sleep
eternal held not agony or pain, but release:
a bittersweet dream, a postmortem peace
into which we awake that may,
or may not be, what we seek.
I have not crossed that final bourne,
not rapped upon Death’s chamber door,
but I have often wandered into sleep.
My dreams are quagmires of blazing fires,
of shadows, of my dark desires,
of landscapes, always shifting, out of beat.
And yet she is always there,
standing, staring, wind blowing through
her chestnut hair, so close that I could
feel her breath upon my cheek.
But when I raise my hand to touch,
to stroke, to hold her ghostly form,
she turns her head, and glides away,
and I can almost hear her speak:
an insubstantial whisper—
but one so sad and sweet that, if I could,
I would choose to linger long
in that realm of sleep.
But choice, in dreams, does not exist;
I do not choose to search for her,
I do not choose to weep.
And when I wake, I see her face;
her knowing gaze has scorched my soul,
as if to say, “It has always been this way,
for me to run, for you to seek.”
Though I would, like the poor Prince,
purchase quiet with bodkin bare,
to dream, perchance to sleep,
I would do it only if I could, forever,
be lost within her amber stare.