One day, my poems will not have to tug at soft sheets
in the middle of the night.
there will be no unceremonious start at sundown,
she will descend slowly but surely onto paper,
without being afraid of the dark.
One day, my poetry will not knock her small toe
against a pile of books in a corner,
simultaneously stumbling
over too many tasks that aren't really there.
One day, my poetry will know better than to wake
at the clarion call of the moon,
the rascal himself slowly waking up
from under covers of clouds,
bewitching time
to make it feel like the night is more enticing.
One day, my poetry will awaken and rub her eyes
only to find that the day is waking up too,
that the sun has just realised that there's art
awaiting him.

One day, my poetry will find her home
before she has to go knocking on the door of Midnight,
asking the latter for "five minutes more"
before she can hurriedly make her bed on my pages.

One day, I will write before it almost midnight.
That day was not today.