Drifting,
oh so ever slowly through conscienceness.
Through the fires of my turmoil,
which roar in agony, to real.
To the calm breeze, of my sleep, which surrounds me, and conceals me.
From the ripples of water that act as memories,
which leads to the play in my dreams,
made and constructed by all these things,
that I have been over the years.
My dreams have been made by feelings I had,
like the fires I spoke of but more serene and sad.
Horrors of losing the people who are close,
are made true in my dreams,
where my monsters come close.
These dreams make me sad and cold inside,
even though I wake up, sweaty and alive.
I sleep again,
my calming beat, reminds me.
I'm in a field this time, the wind, unusually warm and welcoming,
its calm relaxes me as i conscientiously sleep.
My last dream,
before I have to re awake, to start my day,
is one of memory warm and sweet, as I eat and chew something chocolaty new.
A birthday I think, this memory is,
as the food, I scarf down my throat,
is something as great as a chocolate cake.
This memory I realized, has been lost in the junk of my mind,
and I hope one day,
I'll remember these memories,
outside of sleep and outside of my time.
Dreams are strange things, they use memories that you can't remember to construct such intricate dreams, sometimes lovely, sometimes ugly.