Morpheus

One enters a dream-like state

Upon a pillow of mystical fate

Here it seems that the unconscious mind rules

And the seeping vision of Freud pools

One enters the Halls of Olympus in an indistinct haze

Like the mind, composed of locked doors and a seemingly endless maze

The floors: marble, icy and cold

The walls are cracked and covered with mold

One descends a set of stairs and emerges on a landing

A cold breeze whips our skin, and here we see Morpheus himself standing

He whispers "It is I, the God of Dreams

In my world, nothing is as it seems

"Freud was wrong, his song is out of tune

To me, the God of Dreams, he was nothing but a confused loon

Dreams serve no purpose but to amuse me

Every person's inner door is locked, and I have melted the key"