If my life could be explained through the themes of my dreams,
Things would be clearer and what they should seem,
Every time I lay my head on my bed,
It is sights I remember but not what was once said,
Sights combine to shine light on the scene of those I have seen,
And they set the stage for my concourse of memories dream,
Everyone seems to walk on at the right time,
And everything seems to play out just fine,
Interactions make up most of the action in this adventure,
But my dreams make the view fuzzy…my only torture,
Could complex scenery possibly explain,
How I dissect much of my life’s pain I gain,
Because even in the comfort of my mind, reality I can also find,
But to me my memories seem to be kind,
Or filled with irony that infiltrates my skull,
Of how I find old friends in an airport with concourses full,
And how I find aviation being my future job,
Then out of nowhere there is no mob…just a white blob,
Sleep cycles cycle through my mind like a bicycle,
The scenery cracks away like falling icicles,
Only more remembered faces seem to replace,
All the blob of the cold white space,
As the curtain finally calls for it all to fall,
I am left with memories of highlights so small,
From a concourse of memories…the play,
What more can I say now that I have to start a new day,
A new day that could lead to another play in a new way.