Ridge of Dreams

As the poet sat alone in bed
she watched the ridge of dreams
alone and in the realm of dead
held by thought and seam.

The blood of her very mind
poured along the ridge of dreams
alone, away from love and kind
held by illusion and dream.

But as she stood to beseech the new day
in a half-forgotten notion
she sat back in bed, where forever she'll lay
without a single motion.

Preserved thoughts in pickle jars
who once were thought to fester
sit on shelves, row on row
awaiting their only master.

The poet awoke much later that day
her thoughts a broken seam
but knowing not, she continued that way
as she awaited the ridge of dreams.