Bleary eyed I sit a-typing
plagued as every writer before me
has been with the writing
sitting up when sleep beckons
in her ghostly form
her sweet smile curves upward
and I am reminded of the cool
relief of her embrace and how
it feels to sink into
the mistiness of her fragrant form
to refill the need
of the mind
to seek the land
where stories are born
deep in our dreams
we swim the ether and course the waves
to wake in the warm sand of morning
the sun shining in our eyes
the keyboard at hand once again
the stories
the words
pouring forth
fresh baked from that special place
I need to go
As lady sleep is calling calling
I find myself faling falling
In the morning the words will come again
The words sitting in my head
All waiting to pour themselves out
As though they write themselves
Hold me now, sweet lady
I am ready for slumber
no more will I linger in the world
of the real
sweet lady calls me
willing I go