A beautiful, chilling poem by Anita Dawes
Image by Pixabay.com
What is this thing we call dreaming?
Is it an alternate reality we live during the dark hours?
Are others living out their moment before being born
Using our blank minds to imprint their time upon?
Should we take note of those dream moments?
Alas, we do not. We let them fall by the wayside
A possible message lost.
Not all dreams relate to the day before.
As has been said, there are strange moments
mixed in that you seem to recognise, but cannot place.
Faces, voices that you feel you have met before
Familiar attributes you feel comfortable with
Is each life no more than a giant spiders web?
Each silken thread pulled by a puppet master
That loves the dark dreams best
the ones we call nightmares…