A  drowning man, starts to swim,
by the frantic prompt of a defining moment;
may reach the shore, or sink without a trace,
that moment brings the  liberation of spirit.

In such moments one finds ,
poetry knocking at the mind's door,
recognizes the oracular power
emotionally charged words attain;
listen to the revelatons
forget or cherish it for ever
what  does it matter,
the oracle has embraced the light,
relieved from the burden,
had elation beyond words.

If a poem has a life of its own,
and each life, nothing more than a dream,
*aren't you and me, poems written in dreams,
of someone, in some planet, some time?