Dreams may express our secret desires.
Those hidden fires
From which many recoil
When awake.
Yet, some partake
And even pour oil
On their dreams.
Their fantasy burns
And turns into reality.
Ere banality returns
And secret shame burns.
Sometimes, in dreams, it seems
To me
That what I feel and see
Is reality.
But, when I awake
I realise my mistake,
And partake in what we designate as reality.
Yet I may dream
And the solid things I feel and see
May merely seem to be
As Poe saw long ago
It is often said that the dead
Are, forever, dead
And that only fools believe in ghouls.
But, having read
Of ghosts and vampires. When I retire
To my bed
I feel the dead
Draw near.
And in my troubled dreams I scream
In fear.
Yet ghosts and ghouls
Are for fools –
Or so I hear …
I have dreamed
The strangest dreams
And believed them to be true.
When I die
Will I finally find the reality
Of all I see?
No, I will see
No more of dream
Or of what we call reality
For I will no longer be me.
At times I dread
My dreaming head.
In the sunlit day
Nightmares hide away.
But, come the night
My terrors delight
In their twisted play.
All my lusts
Stay hidden by day.
But, in dreams
I play with prey.
Yet all lust
And fear of dust
Ends in dream.
I met a monster in my dream
Who said, “aren’t you going to scream!”.
I said, “no, not really
As I can see clearly
That you sir are only a dream!”.
When dreams turn to nightmares
On endless dark stairs
And you are alone
In your castle of bones,
And you pray
For the day
That may never come,
You are in the nightmare
Of despair,
Where there is nowhere
To run.
When they speak of light
You see only night,
But the endless black stairs
Of your nightmares
May melt away
Into the day
And the sun
May come.
Where she to kiss me
I would think my day
Had not run aimlessly away.
Yet she will survive
When Time’s great scythe
Has struck me dumb.
‘Tis fun
To dream of the Fairy queen
But I shall be cold
Long ere she is old
So why dream my little day
Aimlessly away?
I drink
My wine
And think
Of sleep paralysis.
Then, walking home alone,
I think,
On the wisdom
Of going to bed.
In nightmares
The dark
Stares
Within our heart.
And, when
Good men
Awake
They take
A look inside
Their heart.
And decide
“Is that fantasy
The whole,
Or a mere fractionality
Of me?
‘Tis fortunate none can see
Into my soul.
And the lies
Behind my eyes.
K Morris - Poet 