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Poem

We all succumb to the frailness of sleep.
Strength that rises with a robust sun
must dissipate when a bronzed moon reaps
what our spirited hours have sown.
Our dreams become the ripe fruit grown
within the rich soil of our days done.

We are the most fragile as dreams unfold -
visions are strangers unmasking themselves
and friends become foes as secrets are told.
Loved ones may whisper truths from their graves
as nocturnal beasts chide from their sunken caves.
Dreams may waken our most fragile selves.
                                   As our nights unite with daylight
                                                   which versions do we tell?


Written 5/18/20 for Silent One’s In the Fragility of Dreams Contest

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