Dreams are lined up against the bedroom wall

like an organized stock room, organized

according by size, taste, also color.

Trapped in jars, dreams are not given the chance

to flourish, becoming stalking regrets.

It doesn’t do them or me any good.

With that reasoning, I do not contain

my dreams in boxes or jars; instead they

wait for their time to be my new light,

sitting on a shelf against the bedroom wall.

A dream flies to me, once sleep entraps me,

it wraps itself around, and forms a cocoon;

enclosing my body, we join as one.

The cocoon, through the night slowly dissolves.

Seeping into my skin, but leaving a

sticky residue and the faded pale

dream color being the only trace.

This process occurs, once sleep entraps me.

My mom says I am lucky, she says

some people don’t have dreams to be their light.

That I’m lucky to have so many dreams

lined up for me. Mom also says that there

are more dreams than people, but some don’t have

what it takes. I ask her how she knows all

of this, but she won’t tell me, won’t tell me.

I am lucky she says.