Soft, beyond the bastions of your reason; gentle, past the fortifications of justify; persistent, past any dawn-dew, they walk in their moccasins. And thus, they whisper, sometimes in vain. With each feather-dream they caress the concrete, the hard and the rigid, with a downy-feather-pillow they seek your ear, your heart. But most of all they call, they call sea-shell-sea and they yearn for you to change. Sad they are, the dream-walkers, persistent though. But that melancholy, it entreats, it cajoles, and it asks the question why.
And when dawn has come again, forget. Forget the dream that had you stark and clear, wipe away the sleep and return to the just, justifications, as hollow as they are. Stave off the dream-walkers, light those fires, keep the untimely sprites of conscience at bay. We would not wish a tendril of heart, of feeling, to pierce this mind.
But who is kidding who?
What artifice, which cunning plan, might keep out the dream-walkers? Those which haunt or guide. So easy to mix-up, these two.
No matter what you do, the dream-walkers they walk, and when they visited have, the dream has whispered unto you.
What does it whisper?
That cusp of dream, so close.
Can you hear them calling, the dream-walkers?
What do they say?
And tonight, just like any other night, the dream-walkers may visit you. And would you make them welcome or bid begone? That damn bloody spot may be difficult to remove, and have it pointed at, but the dream-walkers know spoor on the trail.
What will the dream-walkers whisper to you, this night?
Will you hear their call?