How They Come To Me

Mostly, these days, rarely or not at all, it seems.
Days and nights for weeks go by without a single peep;
without a sound, or even hope for something sleek
or sharp, or bright. All night long for nights and nights
I lie awake in bed and only dream what I might write.

But sometimes, waking at some ungodly hour, I rise;
a word, or two or three, or fragments left behind from dreams
assert themselves and will not be denied. At times
like these, a foolish man would choose instead to sleep.
And I’m no fool; I forego rest and write what I must keep.

16 thoughts on “How They Come To Me

  1. Indeed no fool are you to write what you must keep. Things do come to us when we are drifting in and out of sleep.

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