Do Immortals dream of golden sheep?
I like to think they crave their sleep.
That brief stretch of darkness and breath
Is the closest an Immortal can get to Death.
If I ripped open their heads, what would I find?
Dead, rotting cities, mummified in their minds.
A fragmented history so shred apart,
Even the Immortals couldn’t find its start.
Lives that live for such a time, in time take a hellish toll.
Countless wars and countless loves, burning like coal.
I hope some images stick in their heads.
Would dreams be a cabinet full of calming meds?
Maybe they do dream like us during the night.
Memories rising under the moonlight.
Hidden desires, or some semblance of danger
Or, to Immortals, those dreams are strangers.
What need would they have for those things?
Do they even need the embrace of sleep’s wings?
Would the dreams of Márquez, Butler, Shelly, and Poe,
Even be a pale comparison to what Immortals know?
But what would give an Immortal a nightmare?
I doubt before sleep that they utter a prayer.
And with no god there to keep minds clean,
Are nightmares what they dream or what they’ve seen?
Then how could Immortals ever sleep at all?
If nought in their minds but nightmares stand tall.
But I guess the latter is the truth we seek.
Full with nightmares does the waking world reek.
Sleep is the Immortals riposte, I’ve found.
A sharp jab in Life’s eyes; their only cross in the ground.
The world moves much too slow for them to care.
Sleep is escape; in their mind’s prison, a tear.
I know Immortals don’t care about golden sheep.
They’ve made their peace; a deep, still sleep.
And knowing that one will have no last breath?
I think that Immortals dream of death.
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