Looking for words.

Pink and blue billows on the poetic sky drip of eager words
Alas, towards dawn, a westerly wind blew cleared the sky
In the morning blank screen lit up when the sun shone.
But the sun passes as it must, the screen greys while waiting
To be written; to be dreamless is a curse, slow death.
Listless looking at the sky, finding blandness but also words
Like other poets, I cannot steal but wish I could.
I end this poem so I can say; that what is written here is mine.