I sail my ship across the waves of night,
eyes closed against the flickering of stars
which glint like lightning bugs in mason jars
or gleam like golden fleece to catch the light
reflected off the moon. I hold on tight,
steering past the dreams that leave thin scars,
past shards of nightmares sharp as scimitars,
and shadow-shapes of phantasms in flight.

For while we sleep, no harborage exists,
all straits seem dangerous to navigate,
each passage in the dreamworld shifts and twists
while undercurrents swirl and fluctuate.
We lose our bearings drifting through dark mists.
Astern, these tides of night evaporate.