is this where poetry comes from;

as the shades to the soul close for the night,

after chores are done,

as your body folds like laundry into bed,

after your thoughts scan the last 24,

after your mind moves on from events,

snagged upon moments of the day,

that did not happen as planned,

as you choose to let go or not of torn threads,

the prayer resumes,

your soul steps into another plane of existence,

slowly you turn your head and scan the horizon,

in this vast source of dreams,

360° horizons in every direction,

glow silver with the moon,

as mind and body begin to heal,

torn threads re-thread in new or old patterns,

selected from an abundant source within dreams,

here as you sleep,

anything is possible,

laws of nature are suspended,

time requires no equation or formula to be relative,

suddenly shades to the soul rise,

mind latching on to a new day’s agenda,

without memory of where you have been,

alternatively, eyelids slowly stagger open,

symbols, images, and stories,

ordered, bizarre, and everything in-between,

play out in sequences as you choose,

you create them all,

moreover, if you do not, then who does,

the blinds are now open,

eyes moved from sleep to awake,

we collectively agree,

there is a line that divides,

our days and our slumbers,

it makes life more comfortable not to contemplate,

it makes life more convenient not to blend,

the days’ events and the events of dreams,

i divide them as do you,

we do not give 2nd thought,

leaving dreams unexamined,

except upon a whim of something curious,

the strangest of dreams which must be told,

but the unexamined seldom holds truth,

and you ask yourself,

if the mind could conceive without breaking,

overlapping the conscious and unconscious,

as always present in real time,

so i ask you,

do our souls originate from the stuff of dreams,

if they do not,

why do we return every night to those silver horizons,

when our eyes are shut and our bodies at rest,

and i ask you then,

“is this where poetry comes from”,