At night, I die a shallow death.
The heaven is strange; its rules few.
I walk forest, field, and mansion,
weaving the doors of one hallway.

I’m told it’s me all the way down,
but something says, “Psst!” in the dark.
Subconscious is a drug dealer.
It tempts me with alluring prey.

I give chase in that spaceless space.
Unlike the dog with twitching legs,
This chase succeeds or fails at rest.
Then, I claw back to life each morn.