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