Rarely do thoughts
cross the edge
into dreams.
My mind spins in
the margin of space
before sleep,
deftly dodged by
the wisps of subconscious,
left to gather and hide,
waiting for rousing
sunlight to stream through
the window.
Those that wander the
strangely linked scenes
of the night
push into the margin
of the day,
challenging reality,
gathering ghosts.
Categories: Poetry