The Dance of Dreams
Are they ancient gifts?
It often seems the dance of dreams
Deciphering the myths
Are nothing like they seem
Or are they ancient gifts?
It appears that they are authentic,
And then when I awake,
everything I feel,
Often feels fake.
Is it a sign that thoughts align,
Then march into a scene,
And then, in line, they define,
Everything they’ve been.
Dreams can be scenes of chaos,
Some hopes that won’t come true,
Or a sense, seen in a séance,
That flew in from the blue.
When I awake, I try to shake,
The remnants far away,
Though I know some I stow,
And many of them stay.
Some thoughts linger longer,
Whilst others chill and freeze,
And are felt before they melt
Then blown by the breeze.
In the end, there are others,
Gain momentum in my mind,
And the other ones that smother,
And leave that thought behind.
Dialectic dreams,
The dangling diadems,
The dance of dreams is life; it seems
seen through the midnight lens.
©
David Rudder
2022
Thanks for reading.
Become a Medium member for only US$5 a month!
Read every poem and story from David Rudder (and thousands of other writers on Medium).
Your membership fee directly supports other writers you read and me. You’ll get full access to every photograph, story, and poem on Medium. It will also give you an excellent platform to publish and earn from your pieces, poetry, photos, and reports on Medium.
https://davidrudder.medium.com/membership
