In the mist of a late-night dream
Appeared an angel beautiful
Leading me to a sylvan stream
She told me “oft be dutiful”.

Granting me, she, an empty bowl
“Strive to learn and earn your bread
Till you reach the coveted goal”.
Blest I was and contented.

As I woke up, by my bed
Stood no angel, revered, bright
But my nested ‘dreams’ found dead
Thoughts all taken a distant flight.

My dream’s not a sweet song
But scriptured on a rocky mind
Across the bowl not on a tongue
It’s painted in a grotesque kind.