If--

--I could, I'd forge a sunbeam sword
A rapier bright with stardust hilt
I'd fly for miles on wings of dawn
To leave this world of fear and guilt

I'd fight your demons with my sword
And leave them standing there below
We'd wend our way between the stars
In the heat and through the snow

To search forever till we find
A place with other ways of life
A planet lost to time and space
Away from hidden pain and strife

Although we'd lose ou rlives of ease
What better path is there to take
To leave behind the deathly fear
That what is real is really fake

On earth there is no joy or pain
That isn't damped by social norms
No simple task that can be done
If one forgets the proper forms

The souls like islands, silent, stark
Are standing in an acid sea
It burns their ridges and their shores
So they retreat from what they see

But with dawn's wings we'll fly away
And leave the ocean to its pain
To find new worlds beyond the stars
And nevermore return again

The Wine from Atlantis

See the wine from Atlantis
How it sparkles in the light

Note its hues of gold and purple
And of moonbeams, silver-bright

Don't you wonder how I got it
Such a story I could tell

How this wine from Atlantis
Came from heaven unto hell

But forget my untold tale
And inhale the wine's perfume

Such a chilling smell of violets
That will spread throughout the room

Smell of death, smell of freedom
Smell of ancient atmosphere

The perfume of dusty bookshelves
That of sadness and of cheer

Go ahead and drink the tincture
Let it dance across your tongue

Taste its sweet lonesome savor
Like a song that dies unsung

Drink this potion from Atlantis:
See the future, see the past

This elixir has great power,
But the visions never last

Now it stands here before you
And I offer you a taste

Don't allow this fabled potion
To be lost and go to waste

Seize the hour now, I beg you
Make a possible mistake

Taste the wine from Atlantis
Let your ordered world break

Literal Scraps

Eventually this is going to be a seperate, cohesive poem. Hopefully.
No dreamer lacking luck and skill
Can hope to find the tower's door
For it is hidden out of sight
Not upon the wall of floor

Wherever one may search for it
The entreance hides its secret well
Though some have searched for years, just one
Has found it in the depths of hell

His nightmares nearly drove him mad
But from them, he could find the way
So up the crooked stairs he climbed
To watch until the break of day

Because he wasn't locked alone
Inside his mind, he kept it whole
When other people fell apart
Their scraps of dream he neatly stole

A ragtag mind, perhaps, but then
Without them, he had nothing left
And taking all his rags away
Would leave the man of soul bereft

With years of watching others' dreams
The man began to lose his own
At first it seemed the kindest thing
Without them, though, he was alone

I ask you, then, would you remove
The dreams you've left behind from him?
They may be yours, but is it fair
To end his life on such a whim?

Scraps of Dream I

Beyond the onyx gates of sleep
A world is made of dust and light
With ancient books and golden stars
Which light the land of veiled night

A darkish gleaming mist obscures
The view of labyrinthine ways
That weave between the troubled dreams
Of people weakened by their days

Though closely knit their stories seem
Every dreamer dreams alone
They lock themselves inside their minds
Afraid to make their feelings known

The secret worlds people build
Protect them from their waking fear
They build their shelters carefully
To keep the things they care for near

The smallest isle is like a gem
Because they're built with loving care
Each parapet and muddy road
And mote of dust in attic air

The land is woven of such stuff
Like patchwork stitched with heartstring seams
A shining blanket spread across
The minds of those entrapped in dreams

Suspended in the scarlet sky
A twisting tower overlooks
This twilight land so you may read
The others' dreams like borrowed books

The many windows in the spire
Look out on different dreamer's views
If any dreamer reaches it
They then can walk in others' shoes

A few have reached the tower's height
And some have told of what they've seen
But most deny the sights they saw
Afraid of what the stories mean

Troubled though that path may be
Through darkness, fear, and deepest hell
But when you reach the tower door
The stories wait for you to tell.

La Morte

The sky is misty, like a page
A parchment blank and clean
With colored ink the world is drawn
In shades of black and green

The softly splatter-painted trees
And pencil shaded roads,
The water-colored people stand
Intent upon their loads

Or walk about the painting's streets
And never say a word
Their selfish silent ponderings
Will fester on unheard

A smudge of happiness across
The painting mars its face
The forms the painter painted there
Have lost their ordered grace

The smudge, she stands upon a hill
Her face turned to the sky
The wind blows through her tousled hair
She spreads her wings to fly

She soars above the silent land
Into the misty dawn
She revels in the altitude
But terror spurs her on

The painter thinks her shining form
Will threaten his domain
So he will try to paint her o'er
To end his vision's pain

The brush descends upon her now
She strains, her muscles taut
She tries to flee his whitewash brush
But knows that she'll be caught

She hopes to reach the painting's top
Before she's turned to sky
To see the world beyond the page,
To call and ask it "why?"

Why the painter fears her so
And why the sky is blue
And whether life has answers, or
If life alone is true

If anything exists beyond
She hopes that it will hear
Her painted voice scream painted words
From off her painting drear

The deadly brush has missed her foot
By but an inch and then
The painter will undo his fault
And she shall meet her end

A cloudy line she does not see
Appears and falls behind
She does not the edge because
Exhaustion clouds her mind

The painter's brush dabs vainly at
The edge of his domain
She knows if not, but she has left
The painting's narrow plane

Then desperately she gasps for breath
And strains her wings in vain
To catch a gust of missing air
Despite the burning pain

With what is left within her lungs
She cries her last lament
The painter hears, he does not care:
Her death was his intent

He saw her beauty as a stain
Upon his universe
So then he drove her off his edge
To stop her freedom's curse.