Querulous Sunset

Why anyone prefers dreams,
Even hypothetically,
To incoming sensation,
Aka reality,
Baffles me: most of my dreams
Are either ridiculous,
Unsettling, or both at once.

Right this moment, the last light
Of a sturm-und-drang evening
Gives a salmon pink kiss-off
To the lightning-struck peaks
As a wet summer wind moans
And paces around the house.
It's dark, and getting darker,

But it's always well detailed,
This perpetual present,
Never whole, never not whole.
As for dreams of wonderland,
Tonight I'll probably wake
From some fast-fading nightmare.
Why would I want to live there?