Spirits,
Fey dancers of the night,
Deliverers of dreams,
Messengers of ominous nightmares,
Slip like a ghostly fog,
While all else sleeps.
A whisper here, an image there,
Suggestions of things to be.
Tiptoeing through the midnight mind,
The silvery moonlight playing with their hair,
The wind calling with their voices.
A thought begins,
Tickling the dreamer's imagination,
Good or nay, or neither.
The slow mind asks what they are,
The sound; why.
But fear when one's mind asks,
"Who sends the dreams?"
For who has the courage to ask,
Who created that which cannot, itself, be explained?

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