A poet's dream may seem a lie.
The dream I've seen and have not heard.
The feeling caught deep inside of me.
They are both fleeting and hard to ease.
Their trembling gives my mind no peace.
I write as a slave to my own demands,
Erasing and creating their own perfection.
With nothing more then an ink well and a pen.
Poetry's words pours from my mouth.
A tumbling stream, an ecstasy penned.
The rush to capture the words on paper.
The breath taken, as my heart is captured.
Let it end, oh please make it cease.
This endless need to craft poems!
They shackle me to them and leave me empty.
Until I see them in front of me and read them aloud.
The silence resounds only my voice echoes.
The sound of breathing; your breathing, hits my ears.
We look at one another and know without a doubt.
The deed is done; the poem, is finished.
(c) C.N.S.T. -Keth/Rayvintalon
Rayvintalon Community Member 
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