Bored he was in the middle of the night

In a dark room.. cold..only AC’s indicator light

tried to sleep..but sleep alluded

As if to avoid him..even dreams colluded

Bored too much.. he tried passing time

Beginning to write another random rhyme

Perhaps a tale…brewing in his mind

Of characters – some new.. some old left behind

Word after word, he spun a tale new

Thoughts too many filtered to lines few

The best part was that he could write the end

Every twist in tale… he would eventually mend

The writer loved this power he had

A different world he created on his writing pad

Reality perhaps lead him to an insomnia filled night,

But in his tales he wrote his dreams.. setting every ending right …

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