When I lay me down to sleep,
And I try to close my eyes,
And escape to another land,
And yet find myself still awake,
I find myself wondering this one thing.

What is real and what is dream?
What is truth and what is fiction?
What is genuine and what is false?
What makes a dream a dream and reality real?

I can count the many times in my dreams,
When they seemed so real, so very true.
Speaking to family, watching things that could be.
The sensations spoke to me of truth.

Yet once I woke, I could not recall, not at all.
Hardly the faintest remembrance of what I saw.
What I heard, and what I felt, no, not at all.
And many times, I dismissed it at that.

But on those uncertain nights where sleep eludes me,
I look back on those ‘dreams’, and ponder, ponder.
Who can say if those feelings, which seemed so real,
Were, indeed, just a dream, vague remembrances, nothing more.

Could it be so that the land of dreams is the one true reality?
And that our day-to-day lives are the real falsehoods?
And through our ‘dreams’, the only escape into the real world is found.
And yet cursed we are to only see it when we go to sleep.

Then again, perhaps I am merely suggesting lunacy.
And our day to day world is as we know it, real.
And dreams are just pieces of memory glued together.
When one cannot sleep, the mind will wander, wander.

Of this I cannot say what is real and what is dream.
Or what is truth and what is fiction.
All I can truly do is think and wonder.
If reality is not real, but just another dream we are making.