The spider is a weaver
The magical deciever
It lays a snare atop the air.                Come little ones.   A treat awaits.

The pied piper plays a tune
He spins a a lovely guise
He catches children never flies.          Come little ones.  A treat awaits.

The politician on the stump
Puts the spin in his ragged tale
To win the minds and snare.              Come little one. Atreat awaits.

What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons  in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do

I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.

What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.

What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does  your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.

What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the  rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.

What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard  my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.

Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?


.

We steal like thieves
In the shadows of night

you and I...

these stolen moments
more prescious than gems
these stolen kisses
more valued than gold

we live like kings
in this fools paradise

you and I...

Where laughter is our currency
with an exchange rate
of forty giggles to a chuckle
or 100 chuckles to a smile

We are as one here
unheard and unobserved

you and I...

where we spend our time together
snuggling close, holding tight
wishing time too would let us be
as so hard to say goodnight
to

You and I