The Dreamweaver.

There sits the dreamweaver,
On his fantastical throne,
Made with our deepest fears and desires,
When touched it emits provocative moans.
He stretches, lounging on his splendour,
Made from no fabric reality could loan,
He grins from ear to ear,
A smile only that feline from Cheshire could hone.

Residing in the farthest corner of our minds,
Toying with our unconciousness,
He dances through idle contemplations,
Rising up that hidden naughtiness.
Like a tailor behind the scenes,
He stitches vivid theatrics;
Setting our heads aflame at night,
With thought provoking matchsticks.

Dreams are so much easier;
Than the lives we have to live.
No decisions, uncontrollable;
The nightmares easier to forgive.
Feeling the undeniable emptiness,
That death would bring,
Cutting away with a sharpened blade,
Without the tangible sting.

Bouncing from sleeper to sleeper,
Searching for fallow stories to inflate,
He conducts his chorus of relentless voices,
That only our heads can create.