Exactly where I wanted to be, eight hours later

Hear my young breath

Take a bite out of life

Hear my old soul

Speak a quiet still night

Into the existence of mind

For as surely as I once was here

Still am I still

In moving pens and typing hands

Atop corner seats at coffee swills

Where ink and pen and frustrated quill

Are burried in a white of cloud

There hear my thought for you, instilled

Would you climb and sit this literary hill

Would you?