I slept through a dream in which the flowers wouldn't grow,
And all the books were written in languages I didn't know.

I myself was enfixed within a village,
Perplexed by its lack of esteem,
And its lights and their lack of algeam.

I danced around this dreary place,
And ran into other dreamers,
That dwelled in the same the tragedy I feebly faced.

The villagers were somber,
Silent in their trudge,
Never allowing their enslaved minds to wander
Trivializing their reluctant grudge.

I waltzed through their pilgrimage,
As freely as I could,
But of the purpose of their mindless journey,
Is something I never understood.

It was a dreadful situation,
The most serious of all plights
In which the most wonderful of ideas
Couldn't take flight.

We arrived at our destination,
Though it never was in view.
And soon the of denunciation
of any sort of act of wondrous might
Would promptly ensue.

Impatiently I waited
Shifting feverishly in my place,
Forever waiting for the awakening
of the of minds of null space
That left my confidence wavering.

Soon a ghastly figure appeared,
and announced to the multitude
An inevitable fate inevitably feared:
Our generation had arrived at a
Gruesome interlude.

But then it all ceased,
My eyes fluttered open
And I sat up straight last not least.
Thank heavens my mind could only imagine
Such imagination decreased.