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Rated: E · Poetry · Psychology · #1757593
The fascination of dreams is how little control we have, yet how revealing of who we are.
Dreaming

Dreams, shifting shapes, colors and hues, pulling me in and out of consciousness
Fine lines and definition, visits from friends not seen in many years, clear and concise, blurred

Dreams, shifting objects, standing in a house one minute, a grass field the next
The home of my youth, bright and cheery, family occasions, a birthday, reunions, on a boat

Dreams, saturated in color then muted then dreary then frightening
Delicately held together, watching myself fall, watching my child plunge, then it’s not my child

Dreams, conversation, cacophony, silence
Talking to myself, inside my head, speaking one minute to him who the next minute becomes her

Dreams, touching, reaching yet out of reach continuously
Warm in a car, cold in the snow, touching another, exciting nerves in the most erotic places

Dreams, emotions, scents, sensations, cold-sweats, Is it real? Unaware of tears collected on my pillow
My body wakes, consciously jealous, sad, elated, confused, wanting to stay asleep, eager to wake

It’s only a dream... when I’m awake.
In slumber, my reality.
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