The Artist

November 21, 2011
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I fell asleep with open eyes
My open eyes and open mind
And found myself with empty time
The clock read twenty six oh nine.
And sealed with fate,
At eight oh eight,
I found I didn't hesitate.
It's late, please wait, oh wait.
He told me I was a blot of ink.
And what to think?
Of drops of ink?
To fill his pages, blank and stale,
He'd write us both a fairy tale.
I told him he was my bedside light
To steal my fright,
in dark of night.
To lead us down the dimming trail.
And I wrote him a fairy tale.





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