Imagine that, I’ve nothing to write.
I got up early and stayed up all night.
So I’ll make something up, if that’s OK.
I’ll probably live it some other day.
It could be happy or it could be sad.
It could be of some old adventure had.
I’m sure there’ll be others and why not.
Though most quite small, I’ve had a lot.
Perhaps a poet imagined that lives on a hill.
They’ll watch the sunrise and do what they will.
That might be good for a poem or two,
or maybe a love sonnet, maybe a few.
With these pages hands turned with time,
each face a story, each await their rhyme.
Each chapter has its title, the next to depend.
Tho thy tome grows heavy, I wish it no end.
I’ll imagine a tomorrow when something’s to write.
I’ll get up early and stay up all night.