Last night I laid awake
thinking of a poem, or was
it a song, which went on
and on in my head.

I thought to get out of bed,
to get it to paper, but I
persuaded myself I had
written it already.

It  was a grand flight of
fancy, travel to another
time and place, but it
seemed totally in reason.

Something I could sing
to the moon, and it was
beautiful, but now it is
but a memory of a feeling.

The song is gone, the poem
unwritten, but the feeling
of flight remains
etched in my heart.