Raised-up by poets, words fall from the sky.
Then jockey for position, never asking why.
Falling like the rain, for the stories told.
The angels sing-along, with halos of gold.
In the painted desert, the spirit voices trail.
And on a scirocco, their solemn words sail.
Thoughts that strike like lightning, spur the pencil on.
Inspired by the night, to dream of the dawn!
2/16/21