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The Dreamer (Sonnet) by Nicholas Jones

The visions that appear to me at night come when I sleep but stay when I awake; they are so real they infiltrate my sight, so vivid that their power can often make me question my existence on this earth. Last night I saw a stream of weird shapes and wondered how exactly I give birth to visions such as those my mind creates. Yet I cannot describe what I have seen and this inability to tell makes be afraid - how can I not recall the horror of my dreams? From what flaw within myself are these things made? I can provide you with no evidence or proof but please believe these visions tell the truth.

Christof 23-Oct-02/1:33 AM
Good to see another sonnet from you - you handled it well in 'The Canvassers' and also in this. This is more Keatsian as well in its self-analysis and fear.




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