A Little Hand

My waking hours are mine to live, and soul bends to command,
But when I sleep my spirit slips the leash of all convention.
It travels where it wills and whims – where consequence is banned,
And visits thee while slumber guards from reason and dissension.

When I awake and recollect the deeds within my dreams,
I bend my head with shame and strive to suffocate my heart.
While passion leaps to kindle love each time I hear thy name,
My liege lord’s name is Consequence, an unforgiving king.

And for a time each day resolve prevails against the tide,
As mind is occupied with matters conscious and mundane.
Yet waking mind and sleeping heart conspire to confide.
This clash of titans in my chest will drive me yet insane.

What harm, thou ask, in visions that come only in my sleep?
What harm in epic carnal dreaming bliss that fades with dawn?
Tis but a moment, but a fickle flicker born of dreaming
Then passion fades to ashes in the rays of morning sun.

My eye well understands that thou hast much to offer man,
But thy supple being worries not the fabric of my mind.
For tis not thy fetching profile, nor thy skill as courtesan,
That pulls my sleeping heart to thee, but yet is so unkind.

Tis a hand much smaller than thine own that holds my vision fast
And carries dreams into the realm of conscious contemplation
A child’s hand, held firmly in her father’s gentle grasp,
We walk along together in my sleeping revelation.

Her tiny hand in mine, we walk together on the beach.
Her laughter rings like bells and deep inside my heart doubt dies
She dances round me, always just a moment out of reach
I recognize her mother in her warm and sparkling eyes.

Her eyes are thine, a perfect mirror of thy gentle soul.
And naught but warmth fills my own spirit as I think of thee.
Thy precious child plays at my feet, I finally am whole.
Not only mother of my child, but cherished consort too.

How can I set this dream aside, in which my child is born?
In which all doubt and fear has ceased to burden me with pain?
I must, my king is Consequence, his rule is not benign,
When dreams persist in daylit hours and struggle to take form.

Forgive a simple dreamer for his penitent confession
His waking hours are but a brief and numbing intermission
Between his nightly soujourns where he finds his true vocation
As the father of thy children in his world of supposition