I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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Between The Pages Of Our Waking Hours

Between the pages of our waking hours,
Captured in the folds of time we call dreams,
Are kept numerous notions, barely more
Than thoughts, and destined
To remain so.
Fortunate are the few which come to fruition;
Those improbabilities granted a progression to reality,
Nevermore a dream shall be; but
Transformed for we to share.
Should fate dictate its failure, however,
Consigned should it be to that cacophony
Of echoes known as memory;
Resigned to a wallowing existence where,
In spite of ourselves,
Reason, the "master" of the human mind,
Will, out of weakness, be frequently conquered
By that keen student pity.
With you, I fear no such occurrence;
And so rest, in our beautiful concurrence.