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