3am
light rain descends as night moves toward morning’s light.
poetry’s passion sits on my chest reminding me, like Robert Frost’s little horse,
I still have hours to go before I sleep. Sweet sleeping hounds keep me company,
poetry family check’s in on by email and marathon comrades keep posting.

the night is very still, while loud and irritating electric hissing sounds fill the air. I chose
this journey and revel in its labyrinth of complexity as the clock ticks. the hour that seemed not long enough to complete the task at hand, now stretches languidly onward. I beseech
the next prompt, the next hour, please claim me before sleep over-rides the body!

poetic justice, recompense for my confident commitment to word and time
O’ foolish poet, like mystics and seekers throughout millennium, I drink the elixir
of intoxicating phrases seeking solace in their rhyme and comfort from their mystery.
I close my eyes, a brief respite, to begin the journey again into it’s final hours.