Back in the day
of youth and play
my dreams
and my reality
seemed so similar to me.
I'd get that deja vu
and the scene came true,
and I knew I'd make it through
because I had been in those shoes.

I learned to lucid dream -
I loved to control the seams -
and the characters around me
were creations of my animosity.
They reflected my thoughts and visions
under those pubescent conditions,
and yet I stayed one step ahead
by resting cozy in my bed.

Then time had passed,
roles recast,
and the settings changed -
a bigger bed, a room rearranged.
My dreams had changed course:
reality and fantasy divorced,
and each individual's face
lost its place
in the palette of my desires;
if a dream never comes true,
is it then considered a liar?