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;