Un-spilled

Unscripted oceans

Ebb and flow

Somewhere inside of me

A surging, swelling

Undertow

Of un-spilled poetry

Where is the key

To set it free?

What seals this aching flood?

The rising, falling

Agony

Of poet’s un-spilled blood

How do I trace

A formless face

Or spell what yet is not?

And how do I

Escape the cry

Of a poet’s un-spilled thought?

© Janet Martin

 It's true; we can run but we cannot hide...