Dream-Tip

I live for vacant white nights: devoid of stars and ocean hues, a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky that's just a whisper short of true. Life's metronomic father points his stale batons toward my mind, though only to be broken down; alone, I left him ticking blind. The homeless shadows beg of me for concrete shells to live within, though I would never hesitate to fill my inner evening den. I am the author of my dreams; I am the paper and the pen! I sleep for chronic impulse: the resonance of ceaseless bliss, a feeling wrapped in brittle dust and formless like a will-o-wisp. Life's bittersweet horizon peers into my deep nocturnal space, though only to be torn apart; I had no need for such a face. The boundary linking earth and sky does not exist for chainless hawks, so like a bird, I'll take command and pave the path I want to walk. I am the proctor of my dreams; I am the blackboard and the chalk! I muse for vibrant futures: the pliant maps of mental jumps, a polychromic destiny that topples every other trump. Life's bland reiterations ring around my silken paradise, though only to be cast aside; I needn't play with faulty dice. The mirror to my distant past is calling me with whispers faint: "you must retain your future's seed and tend to it without complaint." I am the artist of my dreams; I am the canvas and the paint! No reality can keep its grip on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!