I am before the early bird
That cleans the streets on a Sunday morning.
My pen leaves ink in it's wake
When I am far from sleep
And seeming further from morning.

In secret hours I write
Because my words will be hushed.
A pen pierces a clandestine night
With the hollow sound of overenthusiastic
Words that flow, to make me forget.

Morning must come in time,
And this book will be closed,
And the pen clicked to writers block
And placed on a wooden table.

The clock alarms me in morning's times.

When late becomes early
I let these words retire.