Saturday, October 11, 2014


The night, half-spent,
leads to the day occupied with fatigue,
the need for caffeine constant,
the desire for sleep, persistent.
The pill that brings sleep
also erases the next day, 
soI don't reach for that square bottle
with its history and its promises.
Instead, I write, freeing
words to flood
onto the page,
the radio on low volume,
the sound of occasional traffic
passing outside my window.
two days away from possible
early snow. Perhaps then,
thinly blanketed, I'll
stumble over some rest.
For now, the muses tinker
with synapses, sending
words skittering
from fingers,
unafraid of the darkness,
unaware of the early hour.
They, the muses, must not know
what a clock is for, or how it works.
They have always taunted,
tempted, with words:
"Come on! Wake up! You have work to do."
I must not rest.
I have been chosen.
I am the annointed one,
the transcriber
through whom
tales will be told,
secrets divulged,

Copyright (c) 2014 by the author