Dream

3 a.m. skies, Stars stretched across miles, While all heliophiles, Under the covers hide, With wide open eyes, I stare past the premise. Owing to a wrinkle in my brain, I'm in a parallel terrain. I revise, once again, My wishes to be gained, Planning to board the train, That will lead me to obtain. The train that will be Leading to my utopian fantasy, Where I, myself see, My desires set free, My wishes all absentee, Because I have them all achieved. Breaking out of my drift, My thoughts suddenly shift, Haunted by what ifs, Of my doubts I take a sniff, Evaluating the odds against my wishes, And my train falling off the cliff. I'm greatly taken aback, Affirmative of the fact, That there's something I lack. My wishes go slack, My well nurtured wrinkle contracts, On my ambitions, I walk back. To stop me, come powers supreme, They ask me to stop and deem, Then whisper to my esteem, That because it's not all cream, Just because the path isn’t serene, Is why this wrinkle is called a "dream"