The Edge of Poetry
It came at night,
slowly, like the tide
washing o'er my mind.
Then the rippling waves came,
pulsating through my soul,
a life force throbbing in time
with my beating heart.
On the brink
of poetry.
washing o'er my mind.
Then the rippling waves came,
pulsating through my soul,
a life force throbbing in time
with my beating heart.
On the brink
of poetry.
To know this power fully
is impossible.
To use it fully
is yet beyond
my grasp.
To desire it fully
I've already done,
and desire is the first step
off the edge of the brink.
To a poet,
to take this step is to be
a bird loosed from a cage,
free to fly
in words and rhythms.
A timeless symphony of lyric
forgotton by all but a few
who are chosen,
lets me soar.
