The really tricky thing, the writer’s art—
Is wrestling with new concepts in the night
As words obscure rip restful dreams apart,
Like heinous, calumny and Eremite.
While deadlines call you to complete the task
Your mind prefers the lure of slumbers’ shores –
The wild, erotic reveries that mask
The daily sloughs and desolated moors—
Of routine life and toil unchangeable.
But through the night, the ever heaving breast,
With fluttering heart, demands creation’s swell,
Regardless of the torture of unrest,
Wants sentences of greater stuff than breath,
And leaves you yearning for the void of death.
Words and painting
This is a terminal-type poem based on a poem by Keats (i.e. it nicks all the last words from the original and replaces the rest of the line)