Not a Lucid Dream

She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss,
offer drenching.
Hydrating waterfalls
drawn down suggest:  Release all pretense.
Surrender to fate
or collaborate in divine adventures.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds serendipity’s call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice spells, runes to
guide, sprites of luminous shades.
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.  

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