Am I a stalker of my dreams,

Or the others the lingering encroacher of my Somnambulatory abstractions?

Am I the misty silhouette of my colossal colosseums ,

Or the tombs of their sealed mausoleums?

Is Death a metamorphosis of a dream,

Or the genesis of prenatal soul?

Have we conquered dreams ,

Or have the dreams led us to quell?

If I say, Nightmares are the escaped reality ,

Dreams the scrupulous mother ,

Can you decline the factuality,

Of this felicitous kosher?

The Bewilderment remains flawless,

Dismal perch our absolute supreme.

The Russian roulette rookies insubstantial dwell to be nameless,

But all we can do is go with the dream ripple.