Dreams (Inspired-Desire from Visions in the Night)
Is it just a dream - to dream?
Or can one intelligently
And with honest hope inquire:
' What does a dream, truly mean? '
Is the dream given or allowed
To each their own,
Or across the masses to the crowd?
From God, or the soul,
How to be certain, how to know?
From Heaven's throne, or from the depth's of the human mind?
For one alone, or all mankind?
Shall we be allowed arcanumly to know
Just some of what was missed
From afar, through a dim glimpse?
Could it all possibly be
From somewhere beyond us all,
An endless soft echo
In a very old call?
One that is only to be heard
When the mind has settled quiet,
Into the time when the soul alone gathers words?
Or,
Is the dream as gift given
Hope to arouse and awaken.......
Hope for what awaits
Just out of sight, right beyond Heaven's open gates,
Thus in meager human faith
Tis meant true expectancy to create.......
If it really is more
Than just a dream - to dream,
Then perchance it is nothing less than vision,
A guiding gift given
Part of a much larger plan
Beyond the sight of man,
Originating from the Being
Within everything.
From whence and why
Do this querulous questions arise?
I know not for certain
I can only here in simple words
Ponder upon them,
And the mysterious reason they return
Again and again.
It would surely seem
Dreamy sights travel mostly by nights'
With perhaps a scent of mystery, of the once was, and the yet to be.
Or maybe they just come with a comforting thought
And the sweet peace it may have here to us brought.
Sleepy dreams
Like stars throughout the night,
Constant dark companions
Never to be touched
Nor fully known,
Not even the reason -if there be one-
To be wholly shown;
Yet, faithfully there,
Even if their purpose we are unaware.
A story possibly to show
Given from the Story-Teller
Who wrote them on our hearts
So long ago;
For now we sit in exile,
This temporary land to last only a little while;
Some messages may very well be sent
With a reason to behold,
One that surely must come
From the great Ages of old,
Even if shrouded in a fallen translation,
Tis still our story, everyone's story,
Even my story,
Waiting, and so wanting to be told.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Added by Poetry Lover
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