Recall the imagery of the night
	floating melodically through the brain
		sucking sweet kisses and biting hard
			drenched in sorrows and past victories
				to sodden your conscious with their sweat
Imagination knows no bounds
	and slaves for us throughout the day
		trotting ideas for dust-laden thoughts
			and sculpting monuments of grace and precision
				at one small push down the hill to progress
Imagination, though, knows how to wait
	It creeps through the dim eyeless night of your brain
		It sets itself loose from the chains of sanity
			and blooms into a flower so majestic
				that to look upon it is to forfeit all worth
					in humble obeisance to its reality
A flower that spreads its petals far
	whose roots dig deep into the soils
		of our brain, and plants itself
			drawling forth the fears and consequences
				to water its roots with their insignificance
So we be Atheist, Catholic, Chinese or Pro-Choice
	It matters not and all titles are eliminated
		by a single quiver of a leaf
			or a smile of the heart
				or the dropping of a seed
Belief vanishes at kiss
	a quick peck on the brain
		And the Atheist thinks of a god and believes
			The Catholic copulates with the Morning Star
				The Chinese finds their eyes not so slanted
					The Pro-Choice weeps at the bodies of the unborn
A fire is lit and identity is destroyed
	as the chains come off and ideas
		like pollen, enter us and fertilize
			our dry and dusty thoughts
				from a night spent long with lusty slumber
The petals open abruptly
	and shine in colors that have never been seen
		and the light tastes of perfume from abandoned lovers
			as the flower blossoms in an orgasmic thrust
				that lights the darkened path for worlds unknown
Bid fond adieu to who you were
	As Imagination has escaped its bonds
		and sculpts your identity into improbable substance
			As your beliefs, murderers of a million men,
				are converted to merely an afterthought
***
Sleep has been compared to death
	A darkness in which we have no place
		As we stumble into the cracks and recesses
			of things we have not thought of for a dozen years
				Yet still maintain their imperfect importance
But dreams are merely a token of insanity
	That tell us that what we are is a plank
		or a board, floating on the ocean
			waiting for the wave to take it down
				and whatever passengers it might be supporting