I wrote a poem in my sleep
Of lucid style and feelings deep
With thoughts inducing bouts of love
Transcending all the stars above

It's often looked on as a tale
Of a cheerful, singing nightingale
With melodious quips of lovely note
Shinning light on all the words I wrote

It plays on ears like soundless wind
Of brave, embodied signs that lend
Imagination to the hopeless ***
Romance, lyric, song and wit

Like a play, it bears a certain role
Of long, untitled, fleeting scroll
In which my writing plays the part
Of the beautiful, mysterious angel art.