Dreams have fled on silver wings to alight on gossamer fields. They glide among stars so twinkling they are mistook for candle flames in crystal pools of light.
Every dream that floats from every mind as cotton as a cloud delicate as whispered cold embalmed they become thoughts without owner.
No barred cages of mind from their back, they sprout wings of ancient fire, the burn as chilled as ice. For dreams no longer need us. Dreams have their own to dream.