My wonderings.

Why is it that every morning,
You have to wake 'up' not 'down',
And lying in bed, head clouded with dreams,
You must 'fall' asleep, so I've found.
What if waking was actually dying,
A narrative lost in a second,
A web of sweet dreams, bursting out at the seams,
As lazy daylight beckoned.
These are the questions that plague me,
Enveloped in my weightless slumber,
And even these may not exist,
Once mornings clarity, I'm swept under.