The greatest verses come at night, Drifting off in a dream of flight. Where moments before was consciousness, Soon a dream scape of nothingness. As the dream takes hold, The poem becomes gold. Trying hard to grasp the lines, Making sure none get left behind. Then finally the morning breaks, And the day begins to take its shape. But the poem is gone, Left in the land beyond. Never to be written, And never to be known.
©The Pesky Poet
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