Dreams are fragmented memories
Twisted and tossed,
A mingling of scenes blasted
By Insanity's chaos,
Strange inventions heaved forth
By brilliance untamed,
Explosions of art splashed
In a fidgeting brain.
Dreams are forms of beauty
Emblazoned with brightest virtue,
Or medleys of dark foes
Impassioned to hurt you.
They are puzzles of the mind
In which the portions do not fit,
And riddles so fiercely troublesome,
They stifle the wise man's wit.
Dreams are hatchlings of imagination
That wing about with flare,
Streaming amidst the baubles
That drift in Fancy's air...
And in deepest depths of our subconscious,
They migrate to the soul,
Soaring through all the senses
Until the senses overflow.
But then the eyes are waking,
And dreams fade to nevermore,
Like embers from a fire blown,
Falling to Oblivion's floor.
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Comments about this poem (Dreams by Jonathan Platt )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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