In the quiet and windy hours of the night
I find I am a brilliant writer entirely devoid of sight
You see, I compose novels and anthems galore
While my eyes are sealed behind the fleshy door
Literature onsets in a most persistent rage
Opens my mind's cabinets and performs on stage
For grand and nonsensical plots abound
In my dream-like conscious I am found
I am a writer
a poet
a dreamer
yet
Awake,.. each story grows dimmer
Until at last, reality nibbles with its dream spent wand
and
I am fully awake and my story is gone