When You Wake It Won’t Be Gone

We all are what we each are,
Which, for the most part, means germs
Mixed up with charms, quirks, and sins,
Plus the odd rare gift thrown in.

We all are what we each think,
Which is that we each aren’t all.
A bit like all, sure. Not far
Off the norm. But our own thing.

And, if not each one, each name,
Each clan. I am like my group.
My group’s not like all the rest.
And so forth. What we all are.

At night, or when we can, sleep
Lets us not be what we are.
(The germs that we are don’t sleep.
They slow.) Charms, quirks, and sins wait.

Dreams give us all odd, rare gifts,
Most of which we would not want.
But they don’t take us far off.
We wake to find we’re not gone.

Why this should be a let-down—
Here I am, same old, same old—
Who knows? Could there be a world
Not us, not dreamed, one we want?