Poetry has a way of hiding Itself in a dried up riverbed. Inspiration of nothingness. Words at tongue’s tip, Can’t quite grasp… And then all of a sudden, Words flow like the mighty Amazon During the wettest season, Tumbling over each other In their rush to be writ upon the page. Feast or famine, All or nothing.
Tonight, Is cold, And the moon, It has a halo, My father tells me that, Because of the temperature of tonight, Though I wonder what if the moon, Is really just an angel too high up.