This poet's dream is made,
from something ethereal.
An illusion unperceivable,
a creation of ideal.

Dancing flames conceive,
fervent replicas of passion.
Gazing at the scorching pyre,
becomes perpetual obsession.

Every wave that comes,
arrives with discerning imitation.
Falling into place,
with haphazard deviation.
And the amaranthine beach,
creates vertigo's sensation.

A scarlet moon appears,
a single cloud enshrouding.
The sky gives way to tears,
as the world goes on revolving.

Patiently awaiting,
a climactic innovation.
Time melts and falls in drops,
while I'm safe in lamination.

Fall into a trance,
a hypnotic, momentary drama.
As the nightingale sings,
its mysterious sonata.

Twilight's time begins to ebb,
solar rays instigate transmutation.
And the sky becomes nothing more,
than a canvas undergoing renovation,
falling prey to the spectrum's infiltration.

The poet's dream ends here,
as he makes the realization.
Creating this illusion,
is just useless contemplation.