Within a sleepís dream my I is asleep,
adrift in an undertow of urges
most primal. A speck on an ocean deep,
buffeted by dark, rolling mind surges,
my I is blind to all but what it sees.
Aware of what happens when it happens,
but unaware of why or what will seize
the mindís eye to happen on such visions,
my slight I is adrift in a vast sea
of just the anticipated unknown,
where all that I can know is what I see
before me, that being my truthís touchstone.
I sense it may also be a mistake
to think it different when Iím awake.