I fall willingly into sleep.
Fill of fears and doubt.
Will this muse return,
after so long an absence?
Last time it took so long,
for her to find her way back.
That I fight sleep as it were death
to the writer it the same.
When muse is gone,
there is no more art,
without art, there can be no life.
So still I rail against sleep.
Draining my muse of it all,
for the winter is long,
and I am not sure if she'll be back.
Fight against the sleep.
Give not to the land os dreams,
but live forever on the page.
Until this moment,
when fate wins,
and muse runs.
I fall into sleep,
well spent,
and forgtetful of why I write.
