The night owl bangs at his keyboard some-
Time around 1:00 a.m. Don’t say it’s dumb
that he writes so late – that he loses dates
and times and ways normal people relate.
He doesn’t care. The night owl rises
and searches for sustenance in vices
refrigerated in big cold boxes.
His words aren’t sullied by those too cautious:
He writes what he wants – everything he knows –
and in that all of his passion goes.
Serenaded by the night’s quaint noises,
Stars light the things that he composes.
I will be a night owl until I
Find some inspiration in the damned day
Or in a fresh grave my burnt body lie.
I just find it easy to write this way.
I wrote this poem for today’s daily prompt.