Untitled Poem #39

I will think up a title eventually.

Dreams sing as only sorrow sings,
Beneath the waning moon at night.
The stars bloom above the crowning sun,
Oh morrow’s day it will light.
Then 'neath her shadow in modest wake,
Uprising from a seamless sleep,
The sun will once again call
All average men left defeat.

She will tempt them with what only day can tempt,
But to the nights advantage, only a sad attempt.
For dreams are what create this reality,
And the day reminds us of our mortality;
For in dreams, we are immortal.