Midnight Musings, Pt. 2

Don't try to write at night.

My careless ink mark spoils

the ivory-colored pillowcase,

like a livid new scar

or an uprooted flowers.

Except that doesn't sound right.

It's far too prosaic, far too,

because I liked that pillowcase,

simple as it was, old, even,

pilled and wearing thin.

I suppose one shouldn't

write in bed.  It's like smoking there,

or midnight sentry duty--

lose vigilance and it burns

down to ashes.  You start to use

words like whither and sere

and whilst--horrid words--

and even to use words like horrid,

and the form:  the continued

state of simple nonbeing

can't be called dying, after all.

Author's Note

Comments and constructive criticisms always helpful. :-)