Within a dream I dreamt of another place
where the heart does not toil, nor the body ache.

Where the pen is a lonely instrument,
  for the spirit is busy wandering.
Not trapped in its sighs like a chambered ghost,
but forever seeing, feeling,
without pause to transcribe or explain.

My heart is a fish on that bright sea;
the depths are its home.
When the storms rage, there is only peace.