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On Waking

by Linda Jenkinson

Photo Credit: <br/> Robert Nelson on Unsplash

I wish that at eight
It wasn't too late
For the poetry to rise to the top
That the ideas, that woke me at two and four,
Hadn't ground to a stop.

That the dreams which seemed so reachable
Remained with me
Fresh and new.
But alas, instead,
When I lift my head,
They run into the bed
And are forever hidden
From view.


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