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'Twixt
fitful slumber and peaceful dream,
The world bears not the
truth, it seems,
Of glorious origin and
heritage rare;
The mystery of the here and
there,
The
whirling of an inner-glow
That whispers secrets much
too low
To know their source or where
they end;
Or if 'tis just a dream again?
A phantom
thought, a heartfelt tugging,
Dark miasmic senses drugging,
A coming in and going out,
A dizzy whirling all about.
Awake,
Awake! - But is it sleep?
Or cold reality you keep?
Determined that the so-real
dream
Is nothing more than what it
seems?
Turn
inward to that magic sphere,
Let go of all that once
seemed dear,
And let that wistful Voice be
heard,
Oh! Listen to each whispered
word:
...things
really are not what they seem...
...'tis when "awake" that
most you dream...
...'tis in your slumber that
you see...
...the truth that Is
reality...
And then
at last, when wide awake,
The secret of that dream you
break,
No more the "insomniac's
sleep"
Will rob you of the hope you
keep.
To see
once clearly and for all!
To hear the whispers like a
call!
To understand with senses
clear!
Why, then you'll know the
prize is near!
It can't
be grasped by senses dull,
Nor while the things about
you lull
You into thinking they are
real;
The things you touch, and
taste, and feel.
Nor while
ambition stays your hand,
Nor even love of life and
land,
(For all are products of that
state,
That spellbind you and
fascinate).
Like
heavy chains about you bound,
They keep you fettered to the
ground,
These things deny that you
are free!
But only when you fail to see:
Illusion's
games of time and places,
This and that, and people's
faces;
All are anchors to your soul
That stay your foot when you
would go.
Oh, what
an utter travesty
For you who seek your soul to
free
That finite thoughts and
senses, too,
Refuse to free the soul of
you!
These
plastic baubles and their pleasures,
Offer you deceptive measures,
Than ever dreams are want to
do,
And yet they seem so very
true!
Where
find the light for which you seek?
Well clearly, first, the
realm of sleep
Shows contrast, which should
say to you,
There is another truth, or
two,
Which
synthetic life failed to speak
In her resolve your soul to
keep,
And that should serve at
least as clue,
A greater truth now speaks to
you!
Oh, how
deluded you become
When playing Maya's fife and
drum!
And so again you choose the
dream
And find yourself within the
stream
Of
flavor, savor, joy and peace
Which slumber's balm alone
release,
And then your spirit fairly
soars
Amidst your real homeland
once more!
Mirabel
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