Some dreams seem real,
a landscape where I blithely walk.
I had such a vision last night,
someone knocked at my door,
itself a gilt rococo rhombus,
splintering from age,
its scrolls and cliche' angels interwoven
and my friend Mary beckoned for me
to follow her to the door down the path,
which I did.
I found a portal, not too embellished,
knocked and waved to my friend
Jim, whose undulating tresses
as the hair of a satyr should.
A real surprise,
but it was he, true enough
and not symbolic,
with a stance imperial,
like an ambassador-at-large
I should have known all along.
In my real life he's gone for good,
and my question is,
is my dream about yearning?
Wednesday's dream was another story,
I had no form,
I seemed to be a sliver of paper,
then crunched in a clenched fist
and thrown to the ground
where a gust of wind sent me airborne.
And my question is,
is my dream about longing?
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