The Truth About Tigers

I promised myself an early bed tonight,
yet here I am,
hammering at keys
while the clock nudges past midnight.
Why does weariness
kindle creativity so?

In the hush of the house,
shadows dance,
completing the words
that eluded me in daylight’s glare.
They spill now, freely, from my fingertips,
a late-night postcard to myself.

The 5 am alarm, a looming judge,
whispers a silent warning
of the toll for heeding The Muse’s call.
Yet, in this quiet hour,
the work of catching
and arranging letters presses on,
compelled as long as she is near,
breathing words into my mind,
until satisfaction settles in our shared space.

Still I know,
as I surrender to sleep’s gentle embrace,
that what seems flawless now
will, under the morning sun’s scrutiny,
reveal its true, tangled self,
demanding another round of patience
only the late hours can afford.