Through veils of frost and liquid night,
Where stars burn cold with spectral light,
A dreamer falls, yet drifts, yet soars,
Through alien skies and hollow shores.

Their slumber, deep as oceans wide,
Bore whispers from the other side:
Machines that hum with sentient dread,
And planets ruled by things long dead.

A city looms, not built by man,
Its streets a writhing, shifting span.
Towers twist in spiraled glee,
Alive with strange geometry.

And in the center, something waits,
Unfurling minds and warping fates.
It speaks in tones that fracture thought,
In truths too vast to be unsought.

"Behold," it says, "your waking lie,
The fragile dream you glorify.
For stars are eyes, and time’s a thief,
And flesh a fleeting, brittle sheath."

The dreamer screams but makes no sound;
Their voice is swallowed, soul unbound.
Reality dissolves to dust,
Their logic breaks, as logic must.

And when they wake, the world’s askew:
The sun burns green, the skies are blue.
Machines murmur secrets to the air,
And shadows move where none are there.

The dreamer’s plight is one we share:
Our fragile minds, unfit to bear
The weight of truths that twist and bind—
A cosmos vast, unfeeling, blind.

So dream with care, and wake with dread,
For worlds we dream may wake instead.