What are dreams made of
Fluffy pieces of cloud
refusing to drift away,
making me feel light,
sometimes they are
what my dreams are made of.
Other times, they are light itself,
filtering through a canopy of leaves.
I love getting drenched in its glow,
as if touched by,
divine intervention.
Oftentimes,
my dreams
are scattered pixie dust —
something I rush to gather,
to secure,
to tuck away
from prying eyes.
Only I know
how much I value them.
They are not mere fragments
nudging me forward.
They are my mile markers,
cheering me on
as I strut along.
Without my dreams,
I exist only on paper —
in fragments,
in appearance.
But when they are near,
I have meaning.
I have purpose.
I no longer question
why I am here
or who I am.
This piece is written in response to the two hundredth and ninety-first edition of Fiction Monday inspired by the word prompt – FRAFMENT hosted by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.
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