Dreams

Dreams are hills of blue
frothing before crashing
and slipping away
beneath their descendants.
Last night there I saved
someone from drowning.
The night before I was caught
in a labyrinth with my enemy.
But only those broader
traces linger in the hollows
of my mind before today
and tomorrow obscure them.
They say dreams are rooted
from the third eye.
I picture a glassy blue iris
with silvery glints and long lashes
and branches stemming
from above. Roots stemming
from below.
Stars speckle the scene.
They say dreams are rooted
in the past.
What happened yesterday,
the subtle acquaintences
and happenings that quietly
sneak into dreams.
But the third eye reminds me
of a fortune teller in all its
glassy goodness and glory.
Perhaps dreams are a
hint, just a wink, of the future
or rather, what the future
has the potential
to be.