Most dreams don’t come true.
A blessing, really.
Often I find they are simply
manifestations of the subconscious
That have no bearing of reality
Merely works of the brain
as it sorts away memories collected in the waking day
Those gossamer strands of time weaved into the elaborate web of the mind,
making home among the ridges of sulci and fissures in the cortex
At night I’m left to wander
through the labyrinth of deep, tangled folds
Nothing but a visitor of my own mind–
A stranger lost in an unfamiliar world which they have created