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