It is only a question of degrees, really,
the degrees of space between the dream and the vision.
How unfortunate that I will so often stay nestled beneath
the blankets, delaying the time between my tomorrows
and the opportunity to rise to the bracing coolness,
that first sensation of my feet on the cool wooden floor.
To whose heart is any honor paid, if none awake from dreams?
What persuades a hero but a strangling period of fear?
There are those who shake off the wrinkled sheets of dreams,
Those to whom I briefly lift my heart in smiling tribute,
and then turn back to the bed I made, in which I lie.