I touch the modern tablet of ancient forms
and am lifted to the heavens like the mountains of thoughts
I smell the potent ink of poems feeding my quill
as I make a mark on pages of love
romance
and mystery of being

I fall off literary cliffs
of words which echo my pain
my soul flayed by the passing winter winds
my screams take a tormented flight
across the plains of life
only to die silently like autumn leaves
where the morning breeze scatter flakes of pain and dried petals
of a withered love

the sun always comes back
bringing the joys of songbirds
humming brooks and silent streams
a watercolour of living beauty
distant literary voices caress the lips of my thoughts
and become the accent of my passions