Swift is the mind,

wandering like a lost child.

Forgotten, the troubles past,

for no dreamer dreams

like he who dreams at day.

Lost in a haze; a drifting vision.

The way is unmarked,

but no right or wrong path

can a dreamer follow.

For each path intertwines,

like a mass of writing serpents.

They double back and forge ahead,

but there is never an end

until the dream dies.

'What can kill a dream?' one asks.

What, indeed, can destroy such hope, such life?

Who could posess such almighty power?

There is but one with the ability;

the dreamer.