Waking with a poet’s sigh, always alone,
in a fantasy world, mind and heart has
gone to live, to write a poet’s song. Heart
made to live alone, words abundant
thoughts strong, the poet always alone.
Cut the strings that hold back the tide
that carries words like a bride; to the
blank page a groom of her dreams,
bonded together to the page they cling.
Happiness, humorous, sad or deadly,
at last it laid upon the poet’s desk, the
last word written; the poet did their
best. Within the poet, darkness
dwells as it looks for a brighter sphere,
a home for the well of words, where
words may find a home; but the poet is