Worlds you can visit only once,
and never can return, though a world
of riches and time are yours.
Times you lose when you awake
and long for their return, though in time
they never were and are no more.
They never were and are no more.
Swimming through the air above
or falling down, though highs and lows
are only in the landscape of the mind.
The motion and sensations are real
to the soft machine, though it lies in tow
at the end of the borderland.
The guilt and grace are real as well,
but more the first, although the soul
perceives it will be rescued by the dawn.
It fears the consequences of its crimes
and stays its hand, though not as far as in the light,
far by this form of darkness drawn.
If I could choose to stay or go,
I might remain, though I suppose
before too long a longing for the real
would weave its way into my thoughts
and soil the cloth, though if it not,
the caress of the eternal dress I feel.