Dreams are wishes in the mind’s cocoon;
they grow in the quiet of the midnight moon.
In the symphony of slumber, the imagination’s in tune
With the secret ambitions that desire has hewn.
Yet insomniac fears banish dream’s healing touch;
eyes open in darknesss, but still see too much.
Whiplashed thoughts flail like claws, the mind is on fire — such
a desperate feeling, the waking nightmare’s clutch.
Both visions are truthful, drawing from the mind’s well.
What dreams or terrors come, only midnight can tell.