The Trouble with Sleeping

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I wake in full terror

my hair is matted to my neck -
kitten paws lay tic-tac-toe
across my body 
and it is in this space that
words grow
careless and wild;
they do not wait to be snatched up
like a moth dancing with
a flickering light 
they bounce about in my sleeping mind
with no intention of being 
burdensome
as all poetry becomes 
and I know I will mourn
when I wake
for never knowing the characters
I dream-created
and I will feel remorse
for giving up their stories - 
As if it were my only purpose 
like a lighthouse keeper
to wayward sailors 
coming home -
detached hymns and storybook pages
that could have lived.
I signal my fire by pen and paper
but only shallow bottom,
crashing waves and
blurry lines by morning