PATCHWORD DREAMS

THANK YOU, POPPY FOR THE INSPIRATION TO WRITE THIS WEIRD POEM.

HOPE YOU LIKE IT.

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PATCHWORK DREAMS

Nothing makes sense

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My dreams aren’t themed;

They are patchwork, at best.

I toss and I turn,

While trying to rest.

*

I look at my clock;

It’s just 2:00 am.

Closing my eyes,

And envision a stem.

*

Looking around,

As fatigues takes the tolls,

I hear popping sounds

And see bullet holes.

*

Just a dream,

Like those little scions.

Then I see them:

The dandelions.

*

I awake with a start

As my brain now recalls,

I forgot to donate,

Those Babushka dolls!

*

They’re still on the shelf,

Where they shouldn’t be.

I feel as though

They’re staring at me.

*

Nah! I utter,

They were not more than dreams.

Yet, I check out my room,

And it’s not as it seems.

*

The dolls face each other

As though in a dance.

The little stuffed dog

Appears in a trance.

*

I see small round dents

In my desk and my chair.

Only hours before,

I knew I’d sat there.

*

Little white puff seeds

Alight on the rug.

Others float on the breeze

As if on a drug.

*

I hope this poem won’t

Make me seem like a jerk.

After all, my dreams

Are all like PATCHWORK!!

*

Thank you, Poppy,

For the imaginative spark.

I must go and make dinner.

The sky’s getting dark.

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