Between the dusk and darkest night,
Where dreamers dream and writers write,
My weary body I retire,
My mind's alive, my soul's on fire.
From night blooms come a heavy scent,
Their ghostly presence redolent,
And in my room my soul takes flight,
Where dreamers dream and writers write.
The night air cleans like antiseptic,
Body tired, and thoughts eclectic;
I search for solace in the night,
Where dreamers dream and writers write.
I leave my present life prosaic,
For evasive times that seem archaic.
My preposterous life I now obscure,
My doggerel self with dreams inter.
I embrace my dreams with pen and paper,
Where life becomes an ethereal vapor,
I find a place of sheer delight,
Where dreamers dream and writers write.