A crescent moon, inverted silhouette,
Decides to hang a tilt at night, and howls
A mockery at folklore wolves that roam
The vast and desolate forests of dreams,
A thousand sleeping children churn in nests
Behind their rested eyes, an ember pops
Combusting marvelously, while suppressed
Imaginations freely dance through masks
Of snores and darkened hallways, floors that moan
As gentle feet disrupt their slumbering.
Sunrise will beckon soon, for now the clock’s
Swift hands still abandon their hourly march
Salvador Dali
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