Dreams of worry, things yet to be done, far off places and battles yet to be won.  In a flurry I wake and run to write down the glorious scenes before the waiting sun.  It seems so magical this language of sleep, where God may speak while my ego lays deep.  A far off world, two moons no space, then whisked away to an unknown place.

Symbols grand and characters dark, in the milky black I snap a spark.  Then all at once the crowd awakes, to dance, to fight, an earthquake shakes.  Each opportune night the chat begins a puzzle for me to understand my sins.  Not my skill but His command a bridled vision of what’s been planned.  My intuition, a useful tool, something from God and not from school.  But what shall be and what has been are in His Hand just as the fate of all men.

So, share I shall but with frightful respect for the gift I am given each time we connect.  No power I want but appreciate, I pray to God not wish upon fate. For my future decided but not by chance, nor game of skill but by romance.  The Love of a Father for a son He adores, no points to win no keeping scores.  My dreams are not nonsense when I know how God speaks, through summery storms and wintery peaks.  I look to the heavens for insight and peace, knowing until I meet God the dreams shall not cease.