I speak

The poet speaks

Of this, of that

The tide surges

High, volcanoes flow

Frivolous words fall

Fragile from his lips

And bright glistening

Dew forms on butterfly

Wing tips

Poetry tears forth like

A lion’s mighty roar

And a pen is removed

From the bottom desk drawer

The fingers flex

Twitch, spasm

And out mid-air

You see the gaping ever-chasm

What dreams may

Live, die come and go

In his own life, or next

Or past, he doesn’t know

But as sure as a fish

Is born to swim

Or a bird to fly

Or a man to die

Then I, the Poet, born to my art

My art from within

Deep down, draped in sin

Where they say it all starts

With this pen,

I speak