I Dream Of Poetry
Sometimes, while half awake, lying in bed,
I'm counting syllables on my fingers.
Lines keep popping up inside of my head,
a fleeting poem that seldom lingers.
A jumble of words begins to line up,
drafting a perfect poem, word by word.
Like an optimist with a half-full cup;
what seemed crystal clear swiftly becomes blurred.
In that twilight zone between wake and sleep,
I tend to compose poems in my mind.
But they fade as I drift into the deep,
a lost treasure no one will ever find.
I dream of poetry; it's part of me,
and if I'm lucky, it always will be.
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