What are dreams?
by cricketjeff on October 11, 2009. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
Full of dread and expectation far away from all that’s real?
They can show us how we’re thinking, open doors to deep inside
And the best about the bargain is they’re easily denied.
What are dreams but deep expressions of the thoughts we dare not think?
They’re the hopes for pure perfection, they’re despair as black as ink.
They can raise us through the rafters on a tide of ecstasy;
Dreams aren’t boringly prosaic they’re internal poetry.
What are dreams but tiny snapshots of the status of our minds?
They’re the dredging of our wastelands and the oddest of our finds;
Never simple to interpret, they aren’t literally true,
But perhaps they are a picture of the way that you see you.
What are dreams but random musings, sifting through the day that’s gone;
Spreading light into the corners where the sun has never shone?
If you’re lucky they are pleasures, they’re rewards for doing well
But at times they can be torture turning sleep to living hell.
What are dreams? They’re made inside us, they’re a pure subconscious art.
They are paintings of emotions, they’re the sculptures of the heart.
They cannot predict the future, won’t reveal the lottery
But they free your hidden feelings fired in mental pottery.
What are dreams but secret visions? They’re another way to see
All the gods of myth and legend and of false celebrity;
You may spend your days in worship at a temple or a henge
But at night without a witness, in your dreams, you take revenge.
Maybe dreams are a rehearsal, or a trial run at life.
They’re without full orchestration, they are played on drum and fife
I don’t know what dreams are made of, if they’re old or if they’re new
But I know I should be sleeping, living life in dreams of you.
I think this needs quite a bit of thinking through, the order of the stanzas and such.
Perhaps I need to dream it