To a poet, writing is the blood that flows
Through the veins, words the sinew of
Their being, creating the movement of
The body, finishing uplifts the soul,
Failure not an option as the story must
The lines may read of sadness, of stars
Hanging in the dark blue, shivering in the
Distance, creating against all resistance.
Waiting for the finished poem to float in
On butterfly wings, in perfection poetry sings.