Solitude…

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

always alone.

©2014.solitude.annjohnsonmurphree
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