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Dreams, like passing clouds and the seasons of time
Seldom last for long,
But are soon gone, if not necessarily forgotten,
As the hours and days quickly flee away.

Dreams, what are they but subliminal thoughts,
Aspirations, fears and hopes;
Some good, others bad;
Some pain-free, others nightmares;
Some recollections of the past, others visions for the future
And others too, a blurring of past, present and future,
Where one is temporarily airbrushed from reality
And transported to a time or place surreal.

Dreams, what are they but the evaporation of one's thoughts
Which fill one's mind when one is in a more conscious state
Than one is when one is momentarily distracted
From more pressing things demanding one's attention.

Dreams, like passing clouds and the seasons of time
Seldom last for long,
But are, like their owner, if not necessarily their interpreter,
Unique and yet mortal;
A reminder too that everyone and everything
Has a beginning and an end.

Learn more about this author, Christopher Luke.
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