Dreams

I can never predict what sort of dreams I will have. Sometimes, they are pleasant. Other times, they are frightening. But, mostly, they are just strange. They play out like vignettes from an indie film, and I am all too happy to wake up in the morning.


Dreams

Some dreams are spun in filaments of gold
and silk, and hold against the sudden break
of morning light that startles us awake;
they swathe us in the unassuming fold

of easy sleep. But other are the dreams
devised of darker element and thread;
they keep a correspondence with the dead
and hold us in the horror of their seams.

And as we slip and sally into shade,
the visitants that quicken in the brain
and enter the imagination's vein
may leave us overjoyed or afraid

upon the cryptic rhythm of their tide;
no slumber's certain till it can subside.