Why do I write the verses as they flow?
Should I worry when they no longer flow,
When my pen with ink no longer knows
And my thoughts languish in their growth?

Could I speak to hearts as once I could?
Songless in tongue and melodies that could
Raise the heart and soul to heaven’s goods
Welcoming sunshine rays as faultless moods

Woe to the speech that is weary, tired of creating a place
To relish the goodness of a turn, a phrase outside its place.
Praise to the minstrel who tells a tale of alluring spaces
And restful lolls, leaning on a heart’s embracing

Giving tranquility a home and thus creating
The next line for a poem, the next word worth creating
The thought for the thinking, an idea for the taking
Reminding us why. . .we write the words of our making.