Sleeping It Off (Poetry)

The ink is dried upon the pen
the white page waits in vain
for questing words to find their home
and lines to flow again

His head is bowed, his eyes are closed
he nods and gently snores
for passion has exhausted him —
the muse he so-adores

has wrung him out until he droops
his opus still unwrit
he’s failed to pin perfection down
so he’s not started it

but agonizes — drinks and smokes
and burns the midnight oil
he suffers much — as artists do
who only live to toil

He dreams a poem newly-born
that will not give him rest
he wakes at dawn and scribbles long —
thus gets it off his chest