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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

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