The poem

The thoughts come into my head unbidden.

Mostly they remain unwritten.

swirling around unformed and embryonic,

Sometimes long winded, often laconic.

Exploring the images that run through my mind,

Molding the picture until the words become entwined.

Sometimes it feels like music, slow and graceful,

Other times: loud, brash and hateful.

flowing, swirling, growing, churning.

Mostly its a passion burning.

Don’t know where it comes from really,

Only knowing It has to be shared freely.


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