DREAM
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Poem:		59235
He is like the night thinking Or the thinking night, He often comes when the day is old And every novel is closed, Then, he adds his version which was untold, Oh yes! The untold is what he tells The concealed he reveals The unheard he speaks And the unwritten he writes, Last time when my story could no longer be told, I lied, if that can help continue the prose Then, he opened the door of my eyes Stepping in with a new chapter of my life As he fades out the old chapter, In some cases I was the captured And in other cases I was the warrior, The rich man in a mansion of silver And the sun that shines with the ray of gold But as the sun rose from his sleep He flew through the window Leaving me lonely on wingless bed To continue the next chapter on my own.
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