It is dark,
When the poet awakes,
To free his spirit,
From all that destroyed.
Not a single source of light out,
Except what is shining on the paper.
The words begin to captivate,
And bring the spirit out of bondage,
The energy is back flowing through his veins.
Inspirations already being thought of.
In the creative section of his mind.
For the poet,
It is morning,
And he wanders about,
For the inspiration.