Dreams

[Read Write Poem encouraged us to use dreams as a prompt or inspiration. See what the other folks dreamed up here.]


Dreams

I dream only of the familiar
although fragmented and re-mixed
until the mosaic-tile result
no longer bears resemblance
to my every-day.

A doorway from the house
of my 3rd-grade best friend
leads into the high school gym.

I dream without plot.
If my dreams were novels,
I would never bring them
home from the library.

A swim turns into flight,
and then I'm arguing
at a bowling alley.

My dreams are without art,
not much "there" there,
a gallery of the pedestrian,
I'd pass it by on my way to
more interesting places.

I shuffle papers at work,
on the first floor of a skyscraper
in the middle of the woods.

But does my sleeping-self
guard me against
dreams of excess?

The time spent in luxurious splendor,
in sybaritic excesses,
where my every desire
is anticipated and fulfilled.

A rage of resent,
accompanied by rancor-ridden roars
of enmity,
in which I yell until my ears hurt.

The terror that chases me
as I suffer and panic and pant and stumble
until I can't run any farther
and it wouldn't do any good anyway
because I'm in a corner
and it is dark and dank and

Does my sleeping-self protect me?

Or perhaps I have only boring dreams.