Upon waking in the morning
I settled in to write down my dream -
If only a fragment of it.
I, however, couldn't recall anything.
Afternoon approached
but the dreamt didn't,
although the sumptuous lunch
brought its mood back.
In the evening while reading
a book, one secondary character
in it dreamt about
long lost-friends
holidaying at the beach.
Mine wasn't about that.
I remember, at least,
what my dream wasn't.
Unhappily,
night arrived and with it came
the thought of dreaming again.
A portion of the dream flashed
in front of my eyes:
the part in which I'm
trying to remember what the
dream was.
Sad, somewhat melancholic,
I stopped thinking about it.
Probably, the dream was a dream
about writing. Writing, anything, at all
and paying the dream forward
to you.
