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.