Is sleep, perhaps, a mini-death,
With dreams the clue that life goes on,
Beyond that point of final breath,
When our vital signs are gone?

Although in an unconscious state
While sleeping, tight-shut eyes still see,
We speak, hear and communicate,
Body inert, mind running free.

Somehow, we move from scene to scene,
Without means of locomotion.
Just what cosmic hints should we glean,
While swept up in dreams’ commotion?

Regularly, dramas unfold
In alternate lives while we sleep.
Perhaps, if truth could but be told,
We’d learn death’s slumber is not deep.

One third of a lifetime, it seems,
Is a ridiculous amount
Of time spent on sleeping and dreams,
If for no real reason they count.

© By Richard McCusker (








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