Daylight spills over the edges of the mountain.

It is morning and I have not slept yet.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

This pen pieces prose, or poems almost by rote.

I struggle to determine it’s value or valor.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

What part of my human brain is responsible

for this stubbornness to sleep before

this deed is done?

Seems I should let go or be dragged.