As I lay in the heart of my rickety old bed

thinking the thoughts in my half clearing head

happy to be a prisoner of life,

pleased that I am not a cold dead thing.

I wonder sometimes if I am flat,

a minstrel with only one song,

a prisoner with a penalty yet to be paid.

Like the bird trapped alone in his cell.

A wing, with a cracked spine, sheltering a dream.

I want the new words, new secrets,

unknown, uncovered, exposed.

I want to capture the racing thoughts of dreams

and be their scribe before they escape.

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing – Benjamin Franklin