Tell Me This

If all the world's a stage, good bard and  
we play out our lives in hopes and fears
the drama's on us, whether it be the
sadness imposed when ill fate becomes
us or the joy that ensues when good
fortune beams its best our way. We
aspire and trust, anticipate and forge
a future as best we can never knowing
the outcome as actors on life's stage.
So if life is a theatre of happenstance
in our waking hours what then is
sleep when our subconscious elevates
our minds to another dimension always
familiar, sometimes fraught and very
occasionally brimming with happy
intimates. To sleep, perchance to
dream, and we do, hoping that we may
bypass the demons haunting our psyches
in favour of the gentleness of love and
nostalgia in the understanding that life
is prelude to eternal dreams. Unless
of course dreams are the entry to life?
Tell me do, can we enjoy one lacking
the presence of the mysterious other?