Sleep, my daughter, for I am but a myth,
A Muse, they say.
A thing to make a man’s heart tender,
A creature that veils a woman’s eyes with love.
I know not what I am,
only that I was born to harvest
the very stars I made,
eons before you were born.
Sleep, my son, for I am but a mother,
a deliverer of dreams, they tell me, that bring smiles to infants,
and nightmares to those who see the world
through filters of neglect.
I know not what I am,
only that this light is made to sift
through my fingers and dapple
the clouds with twilight colors.
Sleep, my children, for I am
but a shadowed, masked, and transient being,
I’m told.
A fantasy of space and time,
contained in the imagination,
freed and manifest in the mind.
I know not what I am,
only that this mask
hides me from my own soul,
and the warmth of these clouds
console me in the dark, but are not
a lover’s embrace.
Sleep, my darlings, and know that
you are limitless as stars,
boundless as eternity,
and eternal as love.
I know not what I am,
only that I share my heart
with you, and we are twinned
in mind and purpose.
Take my hand, come with me,
and sleep.
Beyond Panic 