beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....

there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...

and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions

and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,

...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....

then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....

and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.

....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.

but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..

leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....

fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
       but oh, how i crave
their company...