The Poet In Twelve Lines

Eureka, a thought, a pause, a word unwritten, floats above him A sign to this gullible soul, a warning, depression may soon strike The poet smiles inside, no buffoonery here, his fingers tensed, ready Brain alert, hands freed to strike the keys, to make language appear He is not just a putter down of words, he lives inside an extraordinary world Empathy, his spectacular gift, phrases shared to bare the wounds and pleasures of Mankind Ubiquitous, should be the poet's middle name, his verse is truth, found everywhere In mountain village, towering cityscape or humble home, the poet's lines are read and spoken In them, his expression of love, of life, of folly is understood, passed from one to the other Groups will gather to discuss, to share his thoughts, his written word Black letters placed on paper, his inner songs spread to open ears and willing hearts Imagination fired in others by the fingers of a solitary person, depression defeated again today Admitted Poetry Soup 5/18 poem submitted 5/31/18