you'll find me over the hill, where the steam tents the foil

regalia, o dreamer
and those privileged to wear it
those burdened to bear what it is we call noble

you look different, in your dreams, don't you?

is there less of you, or more?

you find yourself shallower than a sweet onion, to see, but in your dreams you are vast and splendid. you've shed all of the ugliness, the uneasiness.

what ugliness remains, others have invested in. willingly, or unwillingly as translates to lacking volition; they were simply pulled, magnetized.

sympathetic and free. regalia, o dreamer. to wear simply your heart.

and the effect of pressure will mold. enough minisicule, inescapable facts will rise to light.

do you deny that the heart of that root is within you, even now? that to want to have what others have, you argue you yourself deserving of it?

and you should. as you should.

as you should be so beautifully magnetized to yourself, indestructible, unconquerable, champion to all comers and ills.

infinitely loyal to yourself.

each crystallized moment a treasure of impossibility. that's your smile. your smile.

these are your shoes. your hands. your ears. your eyes.

these are onions and eggs and bread and cheese.

these are the things you do to keep that smile. the work to clean and comfort those hands, those eyes.

regalia, o dreamer. fuzzy slippers, of course.

black scarves. blue jeans. big sweaters. little sneakers.

earrings, stud-dotted. glasses, for which to see.

do you not wear these things, in your dreams? are your dreams not clad in whimsical socks and the teardrops of bees?

the truth you deny: there is no more nor any less of you, in your dreams. you only want to be yourself.

we only want you to be yourself.

your heart is within you. your star twinkles high.