On the morrow
When the scream of falcons
Meanders quietly over soft meadows
The dream king steps out of his fog

Draped in purple he stands
And then drifts in slow waves
Toward fields of delight

He hides in the deepest scars of memories
Emerging nightly to pleasure and pretend
Only when night retreats, does he show
Only when night dies, does he too

An intimate friend he imagines him to be
A close acquaintance he hopes
But for all who know, he is neither
Only a cheap peddler of forgotten fantasies

...And then the slow procession commences