Feeding Time
It's 4 am. That hour again. No use thinking I can sleep. Writers know. Muses won't calm themselves. They get louder and more persistent. So, I am up.
I go through the house. Knowing the way by heart helps. Night velvets the edge of most things. I wait to put on a lamp only when I must. I try to fool myself into thinking it's all a dream.
Sleep is a foreign country that I hope to visit soon. But for now, there is work to do. In my favorite chair, I sit down. The muse feeds. My pens flow.
I go through the house. Knowing the way by heart helps. Night velvets the edge of most things. I wait to put on a lamp only when I must. I try to fool myself into thinking it's all a dream.
Sleep is a foreign country that I hope to visit soon. But for now, there is work to do. In my favorite chair, I sit down. The muse feeds. My pens flow.
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