Maylar

All my dreams are full of deep, black water and the starless sky, high up above... And in all, I drown in heartless void, breathless, slipping to either of mirroring sides All my dreams are painful thorns and nooses, and in all I get to hang, upside down. Nailed and bleeding, crucified alive, shaking, waiting for the torments yet to come... All my dreams are endless walks down lead road, fenced with the chalk-white nameless crosses. Ravens caw in desperate, lonely voices and in dark, I don't know where it ends.

   In the place where dreams forget about the dreamer and run fast and free in the velveteen dusk… In the open, vast fields of wild thyme and sage and white lilies of the dead, thickly spread... There, whenever it is convenient, he drops by.  Wrapped in the shroud of mist and dark cloak weaved of past and endless sorrow, he comes to think, to mourn and to sleep, using those short, stuck moments when all yesterdays are spent and all tomorrows are just a notion. There, when rested, he also tends his wild garden: polishing the stones and pawing a path toward the citadel on hill, neatly arranging the skulls and the bleached bones.  Alw