The Bell That Rings At Midnight Poem by Dan Reynolds

The bell that rings at midnight makes us weep
and taints the tears that fall upon the page.
It mocks the lost ideas we fail to keep,
and clouds our dreams with caustic camouflage.

Enveloping and shrowding every shred
of forced imagination's courted word.
The writers drag their sorry ar$e to bed,
the search is now abandoned as absurd.

The pillow waits and greets them with regret,
no solace there, no respite from the fight.
Impossibly we chase the Poet's Debt,
the muse has turned her back on us in spite.

They're turning to their meds to help them sleep
The bell that rings at midnight makes us weep