The Silence of Poets

Poets are strange creations…
We pen soliloquies to the insignificant and the vast
We find find beauty in the insect that lands up on our hands.
And yet whether we write love sonnets
Or haiku dedicatxed to simple beauty

we are writing.

We are safest when we are writing
When the pen dances across the page
When descriptions of the simple become beauty personified
When a simple wholesome laugh is that of an angel
When an eye holds the answers of the universe…

we are writing.

But when despair steals our voice
When hopelessness infuses our blood.
When our soul braves the white-waters of hesitation
When our soul wanders the deserts of silence

beware:

Poets were never meant to be mute
Our souls are shredded in the storm of the inarticulate
Cut by the sword wounds of reticence…
Imprisoned by the chains of our own censorship…

if we are not writing
- we are dying….