Poet's Breath

Inside my head, I hold a thought, Sweet thoughts that guide my pen to write, And as I write the ink is naught, Naught but words upon their flight. A little thought begins to grow, It grows beyond restrictive mind, The mind with words must let it flow, A flow of thought in ink defined. In words of love and words of hate, The hateful verse that spews from death, The death of words must surely wait, Await the thought on poet’s breath. Form: Wreathed Quatrain