As I lay in my bed, unable to sleep
I composed a good poem I wanted to keep;
It kept going round and around in my head
(I should have been bothered to write it all down)
But decided, by rote, to remember instead.
Once honed, I repeated, lest I should forget
It felt so secure in my mind there, and yet
Time and again I have made this mistake
I should have got up, or at least stayed awake.
In spite of persisting I was not receiving
No matter my anger, there was no retrieving
And so, after all, I now know to my cost
This delicate whisper,
This poem, is lost.