Itzpapalotl stretches her obsidian butterfly wings into meteor-streaked skies
The muses reach for final burst of inspiration, scavenging words from dreamscapes

Words jotted down in notebooks find their final form in lines
Not so much written but intuited by zombie-like autopilot mind
All the remnants of ideas unformed nearing completion
Dive into the deep end, pull the last glistening threads from dreams of those asleep
We creep towards the finish weeping tears of gratitude

Anticlimactic poetry addicts beaten and drained by 24 hours of pleasureful pain
Finally able to rest our aching brains trying to process what the fuck just happened