An open canvas ,
holds a white blank page ,
the poet sits in silence ,
his mind full of fanciful thoughts of dreams .
We visit gallery's in our mind as vast and grand as any oil on canvas , and construct words as majestic as any William Turner or Greig .
The sun rises ,
The sun sets ,
Waves crash and fall ,
the tide comes in ,
the tide goes out ,
our pens and hearts arise and set with each one,
The dawn and fall of another day .
The moon shines down in part and in full ,
and we dream of a man and wish he could not tell ,
of broken minds ,
and misspelt words
empty rooms ,
and coffee cups ,
that a flick of a bristle could not erase ,
and we sit back and wonder if our words don't rhyme ?
And all the time our minds must dash to flashes and images we
have not seen in a thousand dreams .
nor set a table and chair and invite them in .
For when fantasy rhymes our hearts entwine and ink must flow forever ,
and when they do it's just like dark chocolate porrage
Or a thanks from a friend who's fence she mended to see you .
that smile she gave ,
That laugh you cought ,
The dinner she cooked ,
Her beating heart when all was still
Her hand in yours that said I love you .
And in all these ways ,
Paul saw in awe ,
Before the dawn of time ,
God said you are mine '.
The
poet sat back in his chair and read his words ,
With candle wick low and ready to bed down
For the night his words lived on ,
Until all had gone ,
and there was no light ,
But dreams ,
and our minds ,
don't stop .
