Poetry runs through my hands
Like grains of sand.
Plucking the words
Like the strings of a harp,
My heart
Gathers strength from truthful poems,
Devoid of rhyme or reason,
Though I often try for both.

Poetry runs through my mind
Like lyrics.
Music so sweet, the words.
The ink casts a spell
When I spell
And I wish to enchant
With peaceful prose
In a gesture with rose.

I scatter the petals,
The words scrambled again,
To be plucked from the ether,
To be plucked from the ground,
And used for the good,
Or used for my own ego, or neither.
Perhaps they are used
To battle a stormy mind with sunny words.

The sands of time are ticking.
The music of the world ensues.
The voices of my mind pause and listen
When the ink and the paper meet and muse.
I hear a rhythm, I feel a dance
Everything else is silent.
As words, sweet words,
Run through my hands.