It was a perfect poetic night. The poet was young but contained an old soul. A dipping of moonlight fell, a semi circle beam of light glancing down at the poet and his tired Hands. He had wrote for hours, sinking into the sand observing day to night in a non linear fashion. He had seen things, wrote them and not analysed. A poet does that sometimes, removes all thought just to find the simplicity of a seashell stuck, imprinted into the wet sand, curled up and swirled in shapes and patterns, only a focused eye can see. Or the simplicity of this moon, laying in front of his eyes, soft white, yellow, silver glow of magnetic light, ******* the earth with exposure to what’s above. A poets mind is a mind that only stay meditative for a while until it wanders far into the bottom of the sea, into the depths and shadows and takes a rest amongst the peachy coral and the fish. He needs this time to recharge, for a poet is not a machine, a poet is a meditative instrument pulsing at the externa;. He is a observer of the happenings, a mere emotion, a sweet melody. He finds time to write in good spaces, open spaces where the air is full and quiet spaces where the candle flickers. All that being said a poet is a job that is hard, it requires effort, skill, craft and inspiration.