Poetry is song
to the music of the mind,
to the drumbeat of the heart
and lungs.

Set firm and fast at first,
but lilting away
into distant dreaming descants,
infused with tears
and laughter of angels,
who do not know what they say,
or what it will mean.

Or chaotic
messes brought
Together
by
Lines and spaces
and pencil traces
In night coloured
leather-bound books
But not bound
to the page for longer than
a moment.

Poetry is song,
Played a thousand ways.