Writing Dreams

I dreamt I wrote fine poetry, 

I’ve forgotten it today.

Waking into a cloudy mind,

where my dreams just fade away.

Written in italic, 

on bed of softest browns.

Spread out on the surface, 

where the words laid down.

I meditate to pull it back, 

as coming from my soul.

The soul that has the answers, 

where the truth is told.

Knowing dreams are messages, 

dismayed I missed that one.

Was it the very answer, 

to all questions under the sun.

Even as I’m trying now, 

to fish it from the deep.

Knowing that it won’t come back, 

not even if I sleep.

So who is it who writes my dreams, 

those that I can see.

The creative one, all knowing, 

I guess the hidden me.

8 thoughts on “Writing Dreams”

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