And now that it is morning
I’ve lost all the poems from the night.I watched them leave,
pack their bags and go.No way to stop them,
I’m left alone, and with nothing to show,
but my empty page and motionless pen.Until this night, I will wait
for my dear poems return
carrying nothing but fate
and stars in their little briefcases.And as I sit
I would rather chat than
write them down,
because who am I
to trap them in this town?– Ella Joy