What makes a dream, I wonder?
So many volumes written,
Freud the most famous.
Though, who knows the mind but God?
In years of medicated slumber,
the theatre of the mind was muffled for me.
Too many curtains shrouding the soul.
The good: few nightmares
The bad: few dreams
Just getting up each day and walking around.
And now, wanting more, I try to put a stop
to that existence of subsistence,
and let the good times roll.
The night visions come in rushes,
escapees from behind a locked door.
Sinister
Baleful
Sexual
Ecstatic
Mad
Artistic
Autistic
Unintelligible
Have I the sinew, the nerves, and the veins
to navigate this rushing wave?
