Proud as the stars in a predestined sky,
silent as waves in a vast ocean’s lull,
his gaze as black as the crammed backmost shadow
crowding the rear of a dreaming man’s skull,
yet starbursts of nebulas glimmer and glow
unfolding entire cosmos within a twinkling eye.
Within his dark robes flames dance in mystery
and within his mind our minds all commune,
the Dreamland palaces of his creation all abounding
as a kaleidoscope from the Dreamstone rune
to both ground us and make us lose our grounding,
reminding us what is real, what isn’t, and what yet can be.
Morpheus, the Sandman, Byronic lord of mist and dream,
moody, gloomy, sullen, and grim—
grimmer, even than Death, his sister and kin
who is so blithe towards him, no matter his whim,
his heart as fickle, at times, as his name and skin,
weaving together wonders, and horrors, neuron to seam.