Too tired to write

The words fell onto the page
Begrudgingly
Painfully.
Slowly.
Like a thick, heavy honey
That reluctantly falls off the comb
Promising sweetness
But releasing it
Ever so slowly.
I was tired.
But I knew
That once the ink began to flow
Inspiration would not be far behind.
Writing deserves our best hours
But if all we have
Are the dying moments of the day,
Even then the pen will not disappoint-
It will capture the best remaining thoughts we have
And arrest them on a page
Until the morning light
When we can clearly examine them for their worth.
We might come to find
That even the words of a sleepy writer
Can carry treasures
For the waking world.

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