Is there anyone out there, I wonder;
who is really wise enough
to actually know what dreaming is?
I do not mean the Freudian stuff
where psycho-analysts, at great expense, impose suggestions, deep;
I mean the soft, and sweet adventures that caress us as we sleep.

I do not have to be some tragically romantic, struggling poet,
in some bleak, and lonely garret; to express myself,
although it
sometimes seems the words are not my own; they just drift through my mind,
an echo from some half-forgotten dream? Perhaps, some truth to find?

So; from where then, do we gather bits and pieces of a dream?
Are they just assorted hopes and longings?
for, it doesn't seem
that this explains away the magic of this rendezvous we keep
just across the drifting, misty frontiers of soft, velvet sleep.

Could it be we slip into some strange dimension in the night?
a place, we sometimes sense, perhaps, exists... though hidden, far from sight.
A place where all the golden whispers of the lovers, down the years
have gathered softly; hand in hand, with all their hopes, with all their fears.

And is there, then, some shepherd, or some guardian entity to tend
this flock of lost emotions; ever watchful; on whom, they depend
to harvest gentle dreaming, as we sleep; a kindredness to seek?
Perhaps, not quite an Angel; more perhaps, the Muse
of whom, we speak.

Who whispers words so softly, to us
words, only our hearts can hear;
sowing seeds across the meadows of our slumber
which appear
perhaps, as dreams... perhaps, as poems;
either, and, or... it's the same,
for poems are, but poet's dreams;
it's just, we use a different name.

We cannot know... we cannot tell; the dreams glide round, caress the mind;
so, do we really need to know?
Is something lost if there, we find
the truth,
if there is such a thing; and does it really matter, too?
I do not need to analyse these Golden dreams I share with you.