Reads: 178  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Children Stories  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 29, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 29, 2017



The sons and daughters come to visit me to tell.

What dreams come; are they from heaven or hell?

The night when they go to sleep, the hours are casted where the infinite meet.

The rooms are colored still.

Where the grey comes from, we never tell.

All the walls come down; these dreams become our lives in swell.

Subconscious in doubt is the dog that bites.

When the walls lift up, it becomes the goodness in might.

Where the bell tolls nigh is the stranger behind our eyes.

What are these words foretell as I wake to the morning dwell.

The dreams remembered through the world running free flight.

Are these dreams real or it is the stranger behind our sight.

Witness to fire through the pinnacle acquired.

Dancing around the flame, the colors might come again.

Welcome to the mire in the sword that is willing desire.

The stranger inside is the one that don’t abide.

Subconscious is not locked so easily in the world between dark and light.

Tell the sons and daughters as they turn off the light to say your prayers and wish them good night.

The Sandman roams free past the strangers eyes, not answering questions to the gift that rides through the night.

The walls are colored or are they grey despise?

Wish your prayers are good as you say goodnight.

© Copyright 2018 Adam Steele. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Children Stories Poems