The Poet
Her hand races across paper after paper
Words spill from her soul and enter life
Through the metal tip of her favorite pen
Stories of war and art and the assets of life
She sees them through the eyes of a true poet
A true storyteller
A window at the end of the room allows
The sun's light passage into the confines
Of her solitary den... then light washes
Across teh desk and allows her the brightness
She needs for her writing to be done
The images painted on her canvas of words
Glows with emotion set into her every line
Every stanza stands proud, every word
Flows into the next
Her talent is envied by all
She never shows the world how beautiful her mind could be
When the key is placed into her door at night
A soft click to emphasize that no one can enter
Her secret haven
No one can watch as her songs erupt into the forms
Of words and ink splotches
On fresh white paper
No one knows what goes on in her little room
With no color on the walls, no furniture
Besides her little cherry oak desk
And her favorite oak chair
All that accompanies her work
Are the inspirational sights of the outdoors
The warmth of the sun
The songs of the birds that enter through
Her open window
They keep her arm moving
Piles of her work sit beside her
As the portal of her mind's eye
And yet she is not satisfied
For she must leave this sanctuary
But she shall return
Some sunny day
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