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?