A vulgar, unsophisticated dream,
Not half as special as he'd have it seem:
The angels were but winter's chilly breath,
His princess just a trick to sidestep death
And all ambition artificial hope -
A knife, hidden in gloom, for which he'd grope
When seeking focus; something to pursue
Apart from nightmares once believed he knew.

Belief in sunny smiles and tender touch
Will seldom - maybe never - come to much
As long as destiny stands by his side
And fickle fate's his master, or his guide.
His last-breath prayers for someone to redeem
Aren't even worthy of the title dream.