After a lightening lit bath that lasted all night, I dreamt of a refreshed cityscape by day.
And so, along with the undulating maple outside my window, I endured the merciless storm;
but morning, with neither orange hues nor operatic tweets, was the antithesis of my dream.
Such drabness filled the sky that I shivered and wiggled quickly back under the sheets,
differing, with a drowsy spirit, to the dominatrix who held sunrise in bondage.
Then, suddenly unhindered, a brilliant ray broke through my curtains,
striking me up to observe the warm, fresh day I’d hoped would emerge.
But that vixen tease proffered a day between enlightenment and apocalypse,
effectively reminding me that a dream creates powerful illusions,
and I should well remember, a dream is just a dream.