lonely flesh I
hide in - cast it aside
and my spirit flies. Tiny
thoughts and blind fears so far away
the world is mine as I resurrect the wonders of
ancient days that were never lost.
Drifting through the
thunder, storms I
create, and I'm
not afraid .
"A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why."
- - - Percy Shelley
For Sam's prompt at Real Toads. Forgive me, Sam; I cheated a little. I reworked a very old piece. This is actually a snippet of some song lyrics written 20 years ago. I haven't written a better description of how poetry makes me feel since.