The guardian of make-believe wraps his hand around my wrist;
My protean soul suspends itself, undaunted by the midst;
I close my eyes, covered in mud, and open my heart to truth;
The fog has hidden spirits of wisdom among the clouds of youth.
We fumble to find our rainbow bridge, leading the way to home;
It is lined with rays of ruby red and stones of golden chrome;
She stands as sentry, poised and pleased, a familiar face to me;
I smile with contentment as she whispers words to "let it be".
Drops of dew weighed down by woes cling firmly to the ground below;
Gravity claims my earthly burdens, but dreams refuse to owe;
They drift of might and make, reduced just by borders I create;
The sentress' arms extend in welcome to dreams in their pure states.
She judges not the course I take, nor the visions of my fate;
Instead she gives the gift of dream to soothe pains left by hate.
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