I’m asking, Mighty Poet, what is the poetry?

Why do they feel so tender, the words inside of me?

Caressing weary phantoms and setting them all free.

I’m praying for an answers, silence I can’t admit…

“Can you define a feeling, without destroying it?

Why do you call me Real, if our eyes never meet?”

His voice of thunder whispers into my tired ears.

To cast away my worries, to quiet all my fears,

To find the definition of all my wasted tears…

I’m asking, Mighty Poet, why does it burn so bright?

The Poem never written, the Rhyme lost in a fight

For something so ethereal that seems to be of Light…

“Oh, broken child of summer, you go, be Love, be free!

And if you’re ever falling, right there, for you, I’ll be,

Creator of The Earth, Life and Humanity,

Forever I’m The Poet, and you’re my Poetry.”