This is what poetry means to me.
Poetry. Words that flow together and form a beautiful whole, causing the heart to feel things not in the natural world. I wonder in the depths of night, what it is like to write such passion, if all are capable of this feat, or if only a few have been chosen to light the way. When sleep eludes me, and the moon light fills my room, I grab the tools of angels and try also to be one of those who write truth to those in need. My inspiration, lost now in the winds that passed my heart, all that is left, is words.
Words, that when put together by unknowing fingers, are like a song with an offbeat. I try to keep in time with the changing tune, but am lost in its dying tones. Someday I know, the rhythm will find me. A huddled mass on the earthy floor. Until then I wait and listen to the beauty of the poetry. Made by those angels of ink.