A Poet's Work Is Never Done

Sleep rests heavily
Like the strongest perfume
As it pulls on my lashes
And spins the room

My lids feel heavy
As I hear my body's plea
For me to just close my eyes
For a minute or three

But I'm nearly done
My poem's turning in
I just need a few more words
For my mind to tangle and spin

Until the poem is perfect
In both sound and sight
I will slave over this paper and ink
Well into the night