It was near morning and I was someplace between being awake and sleep. My eyes were closed and my breath was slow, but I was aware of my thoughts. A poem escaped my lips, words forming of their own accord. The cadence and rhythm worked well together in my ear. The lines lengthened and flowed together. Soon I grew worried that it was veering from insight and depth into tackiness, but at its close I brought it back into the fold. I was happy. As soon as it ended, I could think of no words, phrase, or even its cadence. I tried to pull it back, but instead drifted off to sleep. In the morning I woke in full, remembering that I had written something that might have been interesting, but that it was gone forever.