The Desire To Continue Writing ©
The night has stolen his pen and papers,
His eyes, tired and his heart, longing to hum,
His world, silent like a lonesome cemetery;
Each of his aveoli absorbs words
And regurgitates them into the dusty air of his bedroom.
The indigo moon has gone to bed early,
The crimson stars, ready to die in the clear spring sky...
A poet, in stillness on his bed, wishes to meander deep into his dream
To find daylight in order to continue to write poetry.