It must be a strong force unseen
That drives a heart to someone's poetry,
For it's not easy to spare the time,
Out of the chaotic humdrum of one's life,
To push the clutter and monotone aside
And welcome alien ideas into one's mind,
Ideas not shaped into melodious tunes,
Ideas not shaded with colours and hues,
Ideas not in a photographic frame enclosed,
Ideas not structured into the flow of prose,
Free-gushing, mischievous, some rhyming some not!
Poetic ideas are a difficult lot,
Which is why I wonder, astonished, each time
Someone sits down to explore a creation of mine,
What power was greater than all worldly realities,
That led them to my humble poetry?
Was it a soul parched of light?
Was it a heart in the throes of an endless night?
Was it the thrill of love, was it the urgency of desire?
Was it pure craving for emotion, the warmth of fire?
No greater an honour could there be,
Than having someone step into your dream,
Allowing themselves to take the expedition,
Into the unknown depths of your composition,
And have your poem satiate their being,
Just as its birth had healed your own entity.