The empty gap between the line of truth and dream grows thin,
thoughts flee, visions fade, everything begins to rot within.
diminishing values of my own merits, I yet reach ever far
crumbling or shatter, the body no longer cares.

elusive fantasy, dancing phantom of the misty thin reality,
flipping through the myriads fold of solid air,
is anything ever really ever real or ever near?

hush, the it's all dreams now and I'm sound asleep
or is it reality that has begun, and I am now alive?

Are anything I experience at present true?
The friends I have, the belongs I own, the ideal I believe,
when I wake or sleep, whichever is the one that'll disappear?
the abstract shroud of mist never unmasks my eyes
but when the dirt and dust of dream have drifted far away,
how will I know I am wide awake or dead?