A Century’s Slumber
In the realm of a century’s slumber, a truth perhaps,
Nestled within the realm of dreams, a hundred years of sleep.
A number, erasing all, leaving no seams,
All that once was, now absent, leaving no trace.
Thoughts, once teardrops in the ocean of consciousness,
Once as abundant as drops in an ocean,
Vanish, leaving no trace, no hint of their existence.
The cost of life, an abstract notion, untouched, unfelt, distant.
In this world, creativity ascends the throne,
In this altered reality, creativity ascends,
Supreme, unchallenged, in its reign.
Delight finds solace in the unknown, productivity flows, a river unrestrained.
In this space, everyone exists,
Not bound by rhyme, nor time’s relentless pace.
In the silence, the whisper persists,
In a hundred years of sleep, we find our place.
Imagine a sleep, deep and long, spanning a century,
A truth, perhaps, nestled within the realm of dreams.
A hundred cycles of the sun and moon, a mere number in the grand scheme,
All that once was, now absent, leaving no seams.
Thoughts, once as abundant as drops in an ocean,
Disappear, leaving no trace, no hint of their existence.
Life, with its inherent cost, becomes an abstract concept,
Untouched, unfelt, distant.
In this altered reality, creativity ascends,
Unchallenged, supreme in its reign.
Delight finds solace in the unknown,
Productivity flows, a river unrestrained.
In this space, everyone finds existence,
Unbound by the constraints of rhyme or relentless time.
In the quiet, a whisper persists,
In a hundred years of sleep, we find our place in the sublime.
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