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Poem

The mind of a poet, is akin to the inner workings of a big clock,
The thought processes like the gears and wheels that never truly stop.

The clock must be wound, and so must the writers mind,
The events from day to day, feed the process in kind.

A clock must be lubricated, for each writer this happens differently,
The end result the same, the thoughts come very naturally.

When the hour approaches, and the striker gears start to function,
A poet puts pen to hyde, and words flow out in dramatic conjunction.

The ideas in a poet’s head, number more than the minutes in a day,
It is more like the grains of sand on a beach, ever flowing where they may.

The grains of sand cannot be counted, but must be accounted for,
The verses that flow through the mind must be written, or they fly out the door.

The mind of the poet, can be beautiful or dark,
Without the poet, life would be stark!

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