I love the creative insights
drawn from long hours
of stillness.
I would live there
but for the dread of boredom
and deep dark revelations.

Perhaps it is not for me
To be loved, or to love
Perhaps, it is for me
Only to gaze upon it
Like a child gazes at a star
In the night sky
Maybe, it is for me to see it
To be close enough to nearly
Touch
But never to attain
Like a dry, red leaf, in the autumn
Floating in the wind
I Chase,
Yet never catch hold
Love,
Is my mirage in the dry desert
I can see it,
But I will die of thirst
Long before I reach it

A poets heart,
Is a very deep well
It holds many secrets,
Some we never tell

We speak in rhymes,
Or metaphors
We write of hope for the future,
Or sadness gone before

We are guilty,
Of feeling things too deep
And pondering secrets,
Life its self has to keep

Poets see things clearly,
That others cannot
We wonder about questions,
Which time, has forgot

A poets heart,
Beats at a different pace
A poets pen,
Defies time and space

We poets,
Create our own written place
We poets,
Are together, our own race

As poets,
We stand apart
And live in the deep well,
Of our poetic hearts