What are my dreams made of?

Night skies gently waft over the world before me
And cooling, calming darkness fills my room.
I crawl under covers and wonder what I will see
When warmth takes me away from this gloom.

What are my dreams made of, if not memories-
For if they are not visions of the day just past,
Then should they not be reflections of creativities-
So if not memory, where will my imagination cast?

Dreaming to me is like walking through molasses,
Heavy feet and tired legs weary from running
From eyes belonging to judgmental masses
Whose shows in which I act out of fear of ruining.

Dreams- not nightmares- nay, they’re often same
-So I find difficulty in differing the delusions
Depicted by my damnable dome doting on a dame-
And slipping into reasonless iterations of alliterations!

Whatever I dream, remembering it is a bust,
By Jove, I’ve the mind of a romantic, hold the romance
And the mind, I admit, for I am not infrequently led by lust
Into a desirable dream, then a mess in my pants.

But on a rare night, stress at ease and heads at bay,
I’ve seen angels in Heaven and love ‘cross the land
Like life were a fairy tale, happily ever after, they say,
Heroics and adventures with a finale by ocean sand.

I reckon dreams be made of desires in themselves
For our dreams and our desires seldom disagree
And to put one on a greater or lesser set of shelves
Rejects our odd reflection, what makes our minds free.