From Whence Flow the Words

Alive in me, A crystal sea. A growing tree, It needs to be. Incased in flesh, A Spirit's breath, A vine, a mesh, Past time or death. Words flow, I know sometimes, They're mine... Others though seem So sublime. Where do the springs Of poems flow from? A universe of awesome things? They flow, they fly As if on wings. Words wake us, Take us, Lift us up, They pour out Onto paper cup. We drink them in, We sing a hymn. We sink, we fly, To depths or high. A poet's life, Through joy or strife, Poured out to see, Complexity. Let the seeds grow, Sow and plant. A joyous song, A tear, or rant. The living ink well, flows through a pen, It ebbs or swells In us again.