Perchance To Dream

Absurd psychosis lets the id employ
Illusions and delusions in the night
And though they may be visions we enjoy
They may not harm our psyche, but they might
When metaphors become reality
Like poor Ophelia’s flowers by the brook
They blossom into life’s finality
In sleep we’ll see the their symbols if we’ll look
And when we wake, the albas we’ve enjoyed
Or nightmares which we fear have disappeared
The darkness, by the sun will be destroyed
Bright normalcy will dawn to be revered
Psychosis may not be our poem’s scheme
It might just lead to life, perchance to dream.

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