When I’m lying in bed I’ve a feeling of dread
at my tenuous link with humanity,
my dreams are destroyed by an infinite void
and I fear I am losing my sanity,
there are spirits that loom in my desolate room
invading my cranial cavity
with disparate words that are dropping like turds
flushed away by the action of gravity.
As I thrash in my bed, the muse enters my head
and at last I have found inspiration;
in the dead of the night I have started to write,
I am lost in the joy of creation.
Yet when darkness has passed, and the daylight that’s cast
on my lines reveals rank triviality
this deplorable verse I abort with a curse
and a desperate air of finality.