O! To walk the paths of yesteryear,
In a never-was time of childhood safety
And an uncountable wealth of friendships
Old and new, near and far;
A trustworthy kinship with each soul bedecked
In the customary costume of our chosen clan,
Each face beneath the proud-born badge
Of fantasy made real enough to walk through,
As if one could vacation there, on holiday.
Souls spun into fantasy made real within the mind,
Joined together in a web of illusions, made of
Threads frayed and ravelled from the humdrum fabric of mundane reality,
Interwoven into seeming seamless unity, by knots:
Not history, not fantasy, not family, not friends.
Strangers with a common setting, bound together by a dream.
Bonds that seem as real as heartache, and as tangible as the words within a book,
Binding as tightly as belief in their reality.
'Til the dreamer, upon waking, finds the bonds are melting mist,
An illusory linkage among sleepwalkers
Managed by mesmerists revelling in their Dream-fed power to control,
Ever-fearful, lest some jarring note
Should shatter the deception,
Wake the Dreamers,
And leave all lost and lorn,
Washed up on the Limbo they have made of their own lives.
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