Silently sleeping in a bed of roses
dreams bloom in to strange fruit
surreal seeds in reality's skin
rippening in the black fertile soil

The hand that picks them is not my own
it is black and twisted with broken nails
it has been withered by time
its task is infinite

Dreams stored in glass containers
on crooked shelves gathering dust
they are not missed or misplaced
they are lost with the rising sun

Rosa Mayfair

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lost-dreams-4/