"Wake up, wake up," the sonnet called and the writer heard it in his dream.
"I have gauzy metaphors and empyreal imagery to slake your cracked and parched prose. I am fully formed and gracefully metered yet possessed of a key uniquely labile to all who may read me. Wake up, wake up and write me!"
The writer stirred but did not wake for in the passage to consciousness the sublime would evaporate. His dream journal on the night table was a jumble of inchoate notions written in midnight ink that faded in the dawn.
So he would not wake, choosing instead to walk the lucid architecture of this perfect verse in the knowing beyond knowledge, the truth above proof, apprehensible only in dream time.
"No, you must wake," pleaded the poem. "My formal structure will pass the veil to be perfectly born in your waking life."
But the writer knew this to be the flaw in this Taj Mahal of words, the very weakness that would collapse a perfectly dreamt truth and relegate his expression to waking prose.