In a dream, I peer into a stand of tiger grass,
but I see no fearful creature burning bright,
no malevolent eyes engender fright.
But my mind will not let the notion pass,
Blake's tiger, stalking in the forest's night.
I long to see that fearsome sight,
with blazing coat and searching eyes, a killer, ready to harass.

Dreams are made of such as this.
When minds unencumbered, roam at will,
when rapid movement of eyelids,
belie the appearance of sleep's bliss.
So, when I lie content, compliant, still,
I obey my mind, do what it bids.