Old Dreaming

I’ve grown too old for heavy sleep most nights,
and I no longer medicate with pot,
so now the dark is filling up with flights
of mundane dreams I formerly forgot.
The action’s never scary, and it’s not
a forecast or apparent prophecy.
It’s little issues, items lost, a lot
of errands. I don’t think anxiety
is evidenced by dreaming imagery.
But I’ve a friend who tries to sort my self.
She seems to burn to catch and counsel me,
yet she’s the one with Xanax on her shelf.

This entry was posted in Aging, Personality, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s