The confessional without contrition

A crescent Moon, and to its left

Andromeda's galaxy appears to be falling.

She's still a brushed silver smear in the sky,

but tonight appears larger and more clearly defined.

This is the dream, and I can’t get halfway through in one piece.

I grow weary of documenting dreams and their impossibilities. 

They’re cluelessly fragmented and unreasonable.

in one, I’m someplace floating in a cool mist, in another,

I’m floating someplace else equally misty, equally out of touch.

Also, some dreams appear to be on a loop, reappearing

occasionally for whatever reason.

I've thought a lot about recurring dreams and have come

to the conclusion that none of them are actually recurring.

It's one dream and done which is simply thought of as recurring,

but that unsolved mystery is best left to the surrealists.

But of dreams, (like poetry when it begins to surrender its mysteries)

if I can fish even a modicum of truth from their awakening seas,

that will be truth enough.