Mystical smoke of blue and red,
Twists and curls,
Dark the night, and silent the air,
As I saw him, teeth bared.

He was but an illusion,
Of smoke and of changing shades of colour,
And of mysterious existence,
For exist he must have, that vision.

But what is an illusion, a vision?
It must have hints of truth, of reality, must it not?
Hence how would you describe what you saw?
Unless it was but a meaningless hallucination.

Sometimes the answers seems so clear,
If only one just relaxes and look longer,
Like how the stars seem to multiply,
The longer you look into the clear night sky.

Dancing flames, crackling wood,
The smoke turns thick, the illusion becoming solid,
And I sat mystified, making the vision my reality,
For it was good.

I stretched out my hand,
The smoke engulfing my hand and slowly up my arm,
Either I become one with the illusion or,
The illusion becomes a reality.

He takes shape, I see paws,
His teeth still bared, his fur bristling
The abstractness of him, the reality of him...;
I dive into the smoke, being one with dreams.

I open my eyes, and there he stands,
The complete form of a canine;
Did the illusion have truth?
Or did reality succumb to a dream?