The last word

Poetry- it comes seeping through my sinew when I'm in shadow-land.

It comes rushing through my breastbone as I watch sunlight dance on waves.

Poetry- it appears timidly at first, one word at a time, while I'm curled beside my salt lamp.

Then it picks up speed 'til my pen runs out of ink.

Poetry- it flows from my lips when no one else is listening.

It spills out, when I think no one wants to listen.

When I feel so intimately alone, poetry shows up with the last word.