They are the mists that float in the void,
Whirling and whispering, stratas of time.
Where colours are dim or pastel hues,
Swirling and floating, as if ocean held,
Like crests of waves that time passes by.
We stretch to catch, they move afar,
Lapping gently or roaring, impatient.
Seeking our minds, we cannot say why,
Trying to understand what they say.
Fearful nightmares are tortures we find,
Dreamscapes beguiling, sails in the wind,
Billowing, aimless, like flotsam adrift.
Pulled back and forth on the tide of the dream,
A fantasy, a wisp, disappears with the dawn.
Just a mind-clearing, we don’t understand,
Taking our souls to dizzying climbs.
Upwards and outwards, we reach the heights,
Only to fall on the gust of a breeze.
Such are dreams the spirits convey,
Pictures of life, weird or mundane.
Are these but phantoms, flying through,
Or wishes, projected, then dashed away?
We seek the familiar, lost in its embrace,
Then slide through the ether, rising
In torpor to full wakefulness.
Rousing, unsullied, greeting the dawn,
No longer alone with dreams forlorn.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. February, 2019.