Often, on long nights my dreams will curl up around me

so from wooden bed beams grow leaves, that surround me,

first as twigs, then palms that stretch and breathe

into the room’s shadows until insomnia wakes from its dreams.

Forests rise out of blankets, and jungles emerge from walls.

An ocean swells near my closet, crashing smells of fish into my drawers.

Mountains, topped in glass clouds, cover windowpanes

beside deserts sanded with scents of ancient carpet stains.

In my mind, it’s a country with hills, silver-plated during full moons

where remnants of kingdoms meet plains of memories cocooned

in places where my mind creates brave nations, with brave battles,

with brave warriors, with secretly scared hearts and hopes bottled

up inside. Flocks of moths can be heard with tongues

twittering in high places of remote ceilings

They squawk by the starlight of my phone screen

and like elephant, fictional beasts roam the Serengeti

of my rug while hordes of dust-bunnies stir

underneath their feet, shaking off grit from fur.

And am I just crazy or are those monsters poised along this countryside?

With rot breath and roars echoing out to where my nightmares hide.

Tiles turn into crop fields, magic condenses along

mirrors, and through them I swear I see a throng,

crowds, generations of knights, rulers, farmers, astronomers,

poets, or a dozen other hopes gazing back at me, blind as Homer.

Cascading down rapids where water mills sprout like algae near the rickety bridge,

doesn’t it sound a bit too much like the humming of my dorm’s fridge?

What makes clicking of shovels against mud in fields,

or stone laid against fresh castle cement, or sword against shields

sound a bit too much like ticking of a bedside clock?

High winds where dragons play and clouds flock,

feel a bit too much like a wisp of a soft fan, blowing

cool air of foreign worlds into valleys of my desk flowing

into where snow is paper? There, dark shadows, footprints in slush, stand

out like ink. Ancient tales spread from shelved highlands

fogged with aromas of vanilla mist

countertops, remains of Febreezed cliffs.

And now I’m down into a place far from that first sprig of leaves.

Here, anything can happen, reality blends with my dreams.

The sun rises in the west, and the world falls upwards

grass smells like seafoam, and seas taste like Italian herbs.

Here, we sail across plains and take trains across oceans

fly through dirt and tunnel under clouds to cause commotion,

we go faster than light, from z to a,

the sky sings, trees laugh and play.

And pretty soon

I’m laughing too.

But if I were to tell the truth, it’s very dark,

so when it all ends there is something stark

like, pain, and fear left lingering thick

as you notice how it’s all gone so fast, waking quick

to the death of a whole world.

But still, I can’t be too sad when I know I don’t need anything grand and new;

no reason to wait for moonlight to make fictional realities come true.

And perhaps you can imagine, to some small degree, what I mean

when I say this everyday life is a chance to really capture that dream.

But you better be ready for an adventure that leaves you counting sheep

because my kind of dreams don’t go to sleep.