I put my head to pillow, for sleep,
To dream of things sublime.
The gray abyss fills up with prose,
The labyrinth of my mind.
I leap from under warm bed sheets,
Seek out tools to write the word.
Now flow from head on down to hand,
I marshall the verbal herd.
Not oft', but, now and then again,
Such words unkind to sleep,
Would rather scribe upon paper plain,
Than lie there counting sheep.
Alas! I'm done, put tools away,
The poem is now complete.
Once again to sleep I try,
But, words replete, repeat.