It's midnight and the race is on to write
a sonnet, little song with sounds that please
and fits the frame of Petrarch with some ease.
A tome in meter tests my brain at night
and strains the eyes adjusting to the light.
A wonder I've not fallen to my knees,
can't even give the time it takes to sneeze
as desparation keeps the tempo tight. How do these others play the challenge game,
the tune that poets carry in their heads
unique to each alone is valued gold.
I'll have to read and learn them all by name,
but time ticks on and they are in their beds
while I am writing words and getting cold.