Dawn’s Lament

Oh how frustrating
to be a poet
and lack language enough
to say the things of the heart
well enough to be understood,
well enough to understand
the wild imaginings that fill your mind
late at night.

It is as if, dreamlike,
they evaporate
with the first hint of dawn.

About this poem

I write to figure things out. And when a late night thought gets lost, I am sure I have lost something important. I could be wrong of course. Perhaps I only lose a touch of silliness. Or madness.

Tom