My dreams fly off in tatters when I wake,
Reality then sweeping out what’s fake:
The daylight world’s no place for fantasy,
Not airy dreams, but hard reality.
Yet shortly after dawn, I may still glimpse
Some vestiges of dreams that give me hints
Of something I might turn to poetry
That out of airy nothing comes to be.
The Yin of night and Yang of day conspire
To gratify this poet’s fond desire
To exercise godly creative power
And make an artifact within an hour
That may endure until eternity—
And one of those I pray that this may be.