The Gates of Dreaming

There are many gates to the Dreaming,
As many as there be to Hell.
But which gate it is that a dreamer takes,
One cannot always tell.

Is it a gate of antlered Horn,
Which dreams in fantasy drapes?
Or is it a gate if Ivory,
Through which the truth escapes?

Nine dreams will come through the gates of Horn,
Nine, and then ninety more.
But which is that hundredth, one true dream?
None can say for sure.

Some wait their lives for an Ivory dream,
Which they will never see.
Some mistake them for dreams of Horn,
So they never come to be.

Some deny the truth of dreams.
They live their 'pragmatic' lives.
They never question their lack of friends,
The absence of Husbands, or Wives.

I'd rather chase a thousand dreams
That never come to be,
Than deny the chance one may be true:
Made of precious Ivory.

Iain Muir lives in Central Europe, having gotten the heck out of Africa. He tries to write science fiction, fantasy, and poetry in between catching flights. He's sure that the time spent in airports will cut decades off his time in purgatory.

Find more by Iain Muir in the Author Index.

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