DreamWalker

They don’t walk

Upon script they fly

Taken to soar beyond high

Doesn’t live, so cannot die

They dream. No, they fly

Contradicts truth, yet cannot lie

If by chance they do lie

They would then live

Moreover even die

But not whilst caught in dreams

Death, always foreseen

From death, reality always gleans

They, the conjurer of doors

Never kept on fours

They walk high; no, they fly

Rather upon high they soar

Illusions: their wings, their doors

Never fooled however

Initially from strife they may cower

They do see it over them

In sleep, the thieves hover

Then a dream is conjured by whim

By word and now rest

These avenues of illusions

Exclude intrusion

Inside his crest

Despite reality being manifest

It is an accepted state

They know they cannot deny fate

Thus, they conjure their own

A home away from home

Bred, nurtured within their dome

Contained by his room

Or even in boredom

It’s not a daydream they have

Instead a wishful hope

To remove their present to past

As such, within the day they dream

Of presents yet to come, to past

This gift can neither be bought

Nor offered for selling

Intangibly their giving is wrought

Though not secure, it is unfailing

It grows within their dream

Before and after the cock rows

Gleaning all hopes, they sow

Conjures dreams

To get lost within, resting or writing

They dream of a dream

To walk, no, to fly and be lost in