Morpheus has been at the peripheral of my life for, well, my entire life. I have had complex, memorable dreams for as long as I can remember, and I have given him offerings in the past ten years and also studied the Oneiroi and how to divine by dreams. But oddly, I have never written him any poetry. So, here we go. Poetry for the Sandman, the Dreamfather.
Poppies red, dandelion letters on the breeze
and the sound of the wind, singing outside my window.
I lay in bed, eyes shut, pillow held like a shield
against the things that life might throw at me
as soon as my back is turned.
I know, of course, how sleep can heal;
the endless nothing, the great unknown.
And I know, too, the old mistruth ‘to sleep,
perchance to dream’. I sleep, or I don’t,
and in the arms of Morpheus or his kin
I know that dreams are an inevitability
not mere chance. The letters writ by forces
that only the sleeping mind can comprehend
are carried forth by Oneiroi, by gods,
and whispered in the ears of dreamers as
they lay their head and shelter from the world.
Milk and honey, sometimes, or often far more bitter,
biting, truths that we may not want
but which all the same, we need to hear.
And when the Sandman, golden, starlight,
child of Nyx and kith of Hypnos,
comes and rests his hands upon my weary head
I know, I know, that what he brings is balm
or sting, but that I will be all the better
for what the poppies may bring.