Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Coveted Illusion



While others sleep
The poet seeks
New forms to spill
Her unnamed thought
For poetry
Stirs quietly
In air
Tattooed without a jot
It's just a feeling
Without shape
And an ache
Without just cause
But to poise
In contemplation
In the midnight hour because
Time offers no outstretched palm
Where the poet can devour
Long un-tallied realms of calm and
Stolen moments from an hour
So while wiser souls lay sleeping
Poets toil in tender bliss
For that coveted illusion
In a poem’s perfect kiss

© Janet Martin

1 comment:

Thank you always for your visit and your thoughts.