Hypnosis

Beyond the old wooden gate
hides a field of dreams,
A meadow fresh and golden
filled with luscious grass of green.

A variety of flowers
are dotted all around,
Sprouting through the thick tall grass
and sprouting from the ground.

In the foreground stands a tree,
a thick based olden oak
and in the distance spreads a stream
where creatures dwell and soak
and miles away in the rolling hills
strewn, graze many sheep
and between them all, stood so still,
horses gather to eat.

Past the stream and over the stones
towers a padded bench,
Where my soul may go to rest
and my muscles become unclenched.

Once I am done in the golden field,
the one made out of dreams,
I pad back down the flowing hills
and cross the flowing stream.

I pass the tree that grows so tall
and the flowers in the grass
and then I stop at the wooden gate
devoid of any class.

I step on through and with my eyes
I see a set of stairs:
concrete, dense and boring,
lacking any care.

I take my time to step up each,
breathing in an out,
Slowly, gently, at my own pace,
I  bring myself about.