A poem not mine

A pen in my hand; a spiralpad under my lamp
I pen not the moon; nor an autumn this soon
Today was another; like every everyday
Even a poem on my mind; no words close behind

Mesmerized I look; my pen surf the book
Waves of soot create tune of a distant flute
Simmers of light paint my page in saffron hues
The night lulls me then; but now there's a poem in my book