My Dreaming World

The Dreaming World

I woke this morning much like all the rest,

My night spent completing some kind of test.

Tossing and turning, flipping and flopping,

All night it went on without ever stopping.

I’m not sure what the meaning of this might be,

Other than a frantic physical disturbance you see.

But it’s between these fits of uncomfortable thrashings,

I find my dream world and my body clashing.

First turning this way, then the next,

As if someone, somewhere was casting a hex.

I’m not a believer of such trivial thoughts,

But have wondered the what-ifs or of those casting lots.

In the dreamworlds that I visit more often than not,

I see my characters in my stories and have heard gunshots.

In the streets, over mountains, I can hear people yelling,

No dying or resurrecting only the thrill of storytelling.

So, I watch and I listen to all that is transpiring,

In hopes of remembering the scenes and transcribing.

Within my simple mind, echoes remain,

Only because my inner writer remembers the same.

After the night’s games have been played,

Those that linger and resurface in my head.

It’s upon empty stock I paint what was said.

Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes scary I’ve been told,

But it’s my dreams that keep me from growing old.,

Splashing one word after another so that others can see,

What was conjuring and churning deep within me?

Another story has been completed, perhaps a frightful tale to tell,

One that might cause discomfort or cause one to yell.

By: Dan R. Fowler

For: Astrid