Counting On You
When ever the time comes
I guess it should mean a
certain freedom; the kind we
get from writing a poem, the
kind that flows from the instrument
instrumental peace, whatever it may be
It could be the winds that stirs the sea
maybe the sun that shines on you and me.
We hope to see each other there
blowing along the lines of the marble
with eyes like the owl; seeing in the dark
To release some kind of light.
I'm talking about poetry
and all it's unique forms
and how it balanced some piece
of mind, brought the morning
and all its warmth
Before a rugged door.
.
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