//------------------------------//
// Writing 
// Story: Oh, My Dear Octavia 
// by Toe-walker 
//------------------------------//

Yesterday's dull ideas
And ones from bygone years
Flung to the side,
Spend you the next few days
Scribbling. Your face displays
Effort and pride.

After the first night falls,
Sleep where your body sprawls,
Mouth in a grin.
First, through sheer force of will,
Shut the door open still
Since you stormed in.

Just as the morrow dawns,
Seeking to rush your yawns,
Start you again.
Then, fourteen hours away,
Hours that pass like play,
Lay down your pen.

Next, the third day begins.
All but your writing thins
Into a haze.
Idle are both your ears.
All that your mind still hears
Plays in your gaze.

When the third night descends,
Waking days near their ends,
Still you press on.
"Something superb is nigh",
Sense you, your spirits high,
Worries long gone.

Now that you wrote all night,
Toiling by candlelight,
Out comes the sun.
After a beat or two,
Slowly, it dawns on you
It is all done.

Perfect notes, perfect modes,
Show what the piece encodes,
Nimbly conveyed.
Sonorous harmonies
Make it a masterpiece
Ripe to be played.