My Poetry

When I write my poetry, my

mind ceases to be.

The senses take over, and

then its a spree.

When my emotions take over,

I see

There is not much to think;

just be.

Do I change the words, rearrange

some, perhaps.

This is not what it is meant to say,

or then, its chance.

Flowing from one end and then,

it changes its course

There is hope, there is pain, there is

voice- some hoarse.

Voices from the heart, deep down

from yore

Whilst tingling the memories, create 

a sense of awe

Whither do they come from, just 

appearing at will

Dancing to the tunes of these,

and my quill.

Take me beyond my own memory,

my time.

A desperation, no reason seems, sweeps

the rhyme.

Words cascade, tremble, not in

fear.

In a flurry, to bare the feel, right now, 

right here.

Not time, nor space, has deprived me

the wonder

It seems to be there, here, now

and for ever.

Beauty is in the eyes, and lasts as long,

in time

In the mind, or heart, my poetry, does truly

my feel - mime.