Morpheus

by Sean

In an old film-grade black,
within a scratched spot-light,
there sits a lonesome chair.

And in a blink
the Dream King sits before me.

And thus he spoke to me;
His words were wise,
not particularly kind,
but just they were.

And in that far off desert
with its heat
that chair does wait.

The Dream King paces,
awaiting me.