A Masterpiece Written in Dreams
My fingers ache—
muscles weary, spent, and sore.
Sweat soaks through my singlet.
Eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to repay seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each piece I write ends in his bin.
The sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them away with mean regards—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track,
not behind a screen?
I could have run twenty-seven miles
in under two hours—breaking the record—
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s a method, even, in this my madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to forty-two lines,
echoing kilometers run on marathon tracks.
Yet my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill its ache across my face,
where anger and disillusionment dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removes their weary veils.
Each day, each burdened weekday,
and each weekend, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, eat my meals,
beside the stubborn silence of this paper—
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor could ever deny of glory.
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