Last minute,
scribbling pen.
I didn't think it would come to this,
but here I am again.
Its always the final hour,
it never seems to end.
Is the page half full or half empty?
I can't even read what I've penned.
Tardy, belated,
eleventh-hour,eyes dilated.
Head begins to fold like a priest,
bowing his head before an evening feast.
Now the clock strikes twelve,
proclaiming the judgmental hour.
I look to see what I just wrote,
but all I drew was a flower.
There really can't be any more delay,
I'm convinced its not the end.
But considering the price I would pay,
I'll just go to sleep again.