Time to rise; get out of bed.
Clear the thoughts from within my head.
Thoughts that have no place to stay,
For writing them down, for display,
Would help not myself nor thine,
For these thoughts will always be mine.
The last flowers that bloomed this Fall,
Have wilted and faded, to none at all.
The colors that were so intense,
Have darkened, so there is no pretense
Of life, as their hardened stems sing
"I'm gone and won't bloom, 'til Spring.
Here I sit, again,
before the morning light.
Writing out the words,
coming at darkest night.
I'm tired, with aching head,
telling me "Go back to bed."
For just a few minutes,
I must stay,
or my words
will quickly, go away.