dead alive

i dream’d i dwelt in hallowed halls

made of the coldest stone

dressed in ash of fires rash

that burned me to the bone

i dream’d i lay there dead to life

but living in my death

entranced the most by hollow ghosts

who stole my every breath

i dream’d i saw the poets there

frozen as in sleep

their granite blood had quenched the flood

of tears i could not weep

is this our life? i asked of all

to die yet while we live?

or to in death the solace seek

that life would never give?

and as i spoke i thought they stirred

the ghosts grew thin and frail

the light grew bright inside the night

of mausoleums pale

they breathed, they rose, they op’ed their eyes

their tongues let loose with song

their spirits cast from dark at last

to join the living throng

i dream’d i dwelt in halls of praise

illumined by the Son

and there i wrote my book of hope

and none would have me gone