Poetry | Dreams | Life

Broken Dreams Will Not Return

Dawn came too early

Photo by Aaron Huber on Unsplash

Dawn swept away dream scrim Lay over me through too-short night, Breaking tremulous truce in long debate With enemies knowing what I’d say Before I knew we were negotiating.

Were they truly my enemies? Wiser ones insist us dreamers Cast our nightly plays with ourselves. If so, I’d like to audition for other actors Who better wield wisdom in living well.

No ovation concluded night’s drama Shoving irrefutable, essential truths At waking dreamer’s soundless exit Allowing slumbering others to enjoy Their indecipherable, intrinsic selves.

Last night’s dream was important.

There was bocce ball tournament, a hail of roses, and drawn-out discussion with quick-thinking strategists outplaying my fumbling rolls.

What does it mean?

That depends on who you ask.

Either I was entertaining myself during the night, organizing messes of input, or enjoying insights from my deepest, truest self.

Expert answers are based on their philosophy, expertise, life experience, the entire messy and marvelous totality of who they are.

I will choose the answer that bests fits my own untidy, massively tangled totality.

Last night, I was living insights meshed with a real bocce ball tournament where the opposing team was a mirror of ourselves, friendly, outgoing, enjoying laughter and not caring who won a point.

My dreams inhabit my stories, insist on interrupting what would be surrender to exhaustion for the truest, most meaningful restoration of storyteller, baker, and bocce ball player.

I ache to capture their essential truths, yearn to remember and interpret, mess around with night thoughts in the clear sight of day.

They are the silent stream under daily routines, chatter, playing with dogs, and long walks under a desert sun.