Dreams

Mine, I think, are made in earnest
spun by some spider in my head
Sometimes he's kind and weaves with silver
Too often though, he spins out lead

Dreams are weightless, so they say
but they carry a promise all night through 
Those delicate whispers from the day
might spiral to glisten in fresh dew

◄ Limerick

Whisky ►

Comments

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Hannah Collins

Fri 6th Oct 2017 21:36

I like this poem very much.
Dreams are very strange, we have no control over them and yet we do . . . don't we?

Hannah

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Kim Whysall-Hammond

Mon 2nd Oct 2017 15:52

lovely

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