My dreams were wickedly serene
With a dose of literal fantasy
Warping my life as-of-late
Into some kind of joy ride
That my subconscious did create

How sweet it is to tap into that
Without even reaching
When I awake, sometimes I wish to go back
My own attempt at leeching
Grabbing for handfuls from the deepest depths of my mind
and pulling them out
Examining the grains
Just to find
A warped and twisted mesh of real life best left
Behind

My life can't wait for my dreams to catch up
There comes a point where dreams aren't enough
To make sense of this constant bombardment of
of . . .
of . . .
How strange it is to find that word without the next
what a trip we take to the new day from the one that we've left

I have trouble defining what life is
Because I can't think of a boundary to what it encompasses
Every waking thought?
Every sleeping plot?
(for more often than not,
my dreams seem to be of a movie.
Scenes from a screen that I vaguely remember to have seen. . . )

When does real life end,
and non-life start?
Can we even comprehend what it means for life to just
Stop.