And another one:

The Door to Dreams

Somewhere along the specter of an ethereal plain lies a door to dreams of things of yet to unfold, to tales of stories yet to be told, a spirit searches longingly for the place it calls home.

“Oh, why must I suffer to live a life in such pain”, the spirit cries. “I know that I can indeed be selfish and vain, but to live such a life is no life all all when the door to dreams lies just beyond a wall.”

A wall that is more than a centimeter deep, that lies between the state of restfulness and sleep, and causes the spirit of my eternal soul to weep.

The wall is not a wall at all, but is rather me and all.

Since all that exists will fall and all that there is is me, I wonder along this winding road, this contorted path, just who it is that I am meant to be?

I cannot see for I am blind, I cannot hear for I am deaf, but the only thing I know for certain is death.

It comes to me in the night, which causes my heart great fright, but the scream of my tethered spirit is heard in vain, for the only thing that I am is a name.

A name that carries with it this weight of great shame. For in the end, I remain a lonely spirit trapped in this vessel called a brain.

The cries of the soul are heard on deft ears, the dreams of dreamers are felt in tears.

Of dreams that may not nor ever will be, of things that I may not nor ever will see, I lie awake in fear of who I might be, when I awake from the dreams of things that cannot nor ever will be.