Alert, I wake – long past the witching hour
head pounding, stomach sour.

But all advantage is not lost, something
remains – my muse abjures from taking wing.

She hangs around, still hoping to spin gold
from drunken fancies neither brave nor bold,
though strange enough to weave a storied dream
replete with shadowed eyes that glint and gleam…

A poem not epic.  Pithy, short and sharp
no angel bright would play upon his harp,
although some imp, some fiend of small degree,
may like this verse and sing it fiddle-dee,
preferring frippery to hymn or prayer
conferring dreamless sleep as my fair share.

Christine Irving, Poetic License