Best poems are lost in the warmth of blanket.

Lured away by sleep
they could be precious keep
if I could hold them through night.

Best poems surrender to warm bed’s comfort.

Lulled into stupor quietly abort
before I could take them on a sleepless ride,
they seek a dark corner find it and hide.

Best poems brew though in the stillness of night.

I cannot birth them show them daylight
but let them die in abject disgrace
on warm bed beneath blanket

sunk without a trace!