somnolence song

O! Phobetor, Phobetor
is this your secret fancy!
To dive deep 'nto the recess
of the unconscious mind,
and peck at it: a knife
to an oyster clammed shut.
You hold Fear like a grain
to flick into our eyes
And laugh at us flinch, squirm,
cringe at such simple a speck.

And brother Phantasos
How evil your laughter must be!
You enchant our eyes
to make fanasty
Reality - in but a moment
Picking at the depths of our hearts
and drawing out deepest hopes
like fraying threads
'til we be empty and dry
Sweet liberation! though trapped
in our own minds
You make dead men cry.

But Morpheus, Morpheus,
greatest of them all,
what business is this
that you bear?
Surely there is reason less cruel
for your doing:
Are you curse or blessing
to your father's magic?
Is that prophesy and insight
you share? Your ghostly visits
that you make by night,
leave me bothered, and bewildered,
in sleep and in light-
You leave me with no sense,
lost and confused!
With your dreams, I know not
what to do
O, Morpheus! I pray you,
give me back sense
and soundness to my slumber