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Apothecary of Wordsmith Dreamscapes
My sleep is disrupted, badgered
by incessant wordplay,
a thesaurus of woolgathering
in semi-conscious dreams.
I keep a voice recorder,
bedside, to record the tidbit morsels
Lest they're forgotten
when I awaken and make bread
from the crumbs dropped
on my passage through the night.
The poet's worst nightmare is that
the crumbs will be eaten by crows
or carried away by ants in the night,
so the way back to recall
the thought trail is lost
and the poem will never
see the light of day,
and will never be crafted.
Any loss of these dream-let gems
is so frustrating and intolerable
to a poet, forever on the hunt
for magical meaningful words
beyond the hocus-pocus
of abracadabra in dreamscape thoughts,
and images, that pop into my head when dreaming.
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