Behind eyelids heavy with sleep and dreams a doorway opens.
Beyond lies the ocean.
blue and green and white all foaming as one
wave washing up.
Cold water tickles my legs
as I scramble to stay dry.
I climb steps formed from rocks created
by my mind.
Climbing higher than anyone
I look down at sand and water.
Wind whips my hair
but there won't be tangles.
There are never tangles in dreams.
Standing by the surf once again
(another advantage of dreams —
no climbing down,
nor shins scratched by sharp stones
with unnatural blood lust)
I spy a boat in the distance.
I look again, but it's gone.
It will be back when I call.
Clouds drift overhead lazy as hot afternoons
filled with colorful characters
straight from a fairy tale.
These things please me,
so I let them be,
knowing that in my reverie
the world is mine to twist and contort as I will.
Towards morning the door creeps shut.
As my mind, reluctantly, puts away the toys of night,
and picks up the tools of day,
a fragment will stay with me.