When in sleep I perchance to dream,

there comes the rub for in that stream

of living death’s unconscious strings

I do not dream of normal things.

How I wish to dream what others do.

No normal mind should seek to view

a classroom with themselves undressed,

And haven’t studied for a test. Or even better still to fly,

And wake up saddened with a sigh.

But I’d be glad to dream of these,

And not the dark and misty trees,

and empty road in milky light,

and no living soul in sight.

The baleful lamps that line the street,

whisper to me in voices sweet:

“Follow us, we’ll lead the way,

But there shall be a toll to pay.”

I know too well the price they take,

But every dream their path I take.

Of this I dream, this forlorn place,

lacking malice and lacking grace,

empty of morals and of thought.

No good nor evil here are wrought,

except for what I bring with me,

for here my soul is plain to see.

Each night I dream of this dark road

where stains upon my soul are showed.

When into the mist I’ve traveled,

My dark thoughts are soon unraveled,

Like thread from the sister’s loom,

My fate appears amidst the gloom.

And further on it gets worse still,

greater terrors appear until

before my eyes I see at last

The horror that defines my past.

Each night to god I pray

to keep my only dream at bay.

But my all pleas are done in vain,

for I always relive the pain,

of the cruel truth that I am shown:

that I must always be alone.

And I know that it’s for the best,

Because my hatred shall not rest.

The dreams I dream are prophecy,

a terrible truth they foresee.

In mists of memory and fate,

The past and present copulate,

and my destiny is their child,

Sleeping now so tender, mild.

But as I do the child must wake,

And the future that he will make

is the one my thoughts have molded,

and my dreams have shown unfolded.

By lamplight I see the vile deeds,

Which are the sprouts of violent seeds,

Which were planted in my brain

And watered with my pain like rain.

I do not dream of normal things,

My darkest thoughts are given wings.

In dreams I see within that mist,

the future is a morbid list,

of evil deeds that I shall do,

when my grim destiny comes true.

The memories and prophecies,

evil hidden among the trees,

reminds me that there is no chance

of leaving this eternal dance

of hate grown in a tortured mind

implanted there by humankind.

And when I do these evil deeds

I will plant my own hate filled seeds.

Each night I see the only fact,

Upon which I shall ever act:

The only nightmare that I ever see

In dreams is no one else but me.