Sometimes it is difficult to find,

myself when behind closed eyes,

all that resides,

is darkness,

seemingly vast.

It is tricky knowing,

which way to cast,

my trust,

to thoughts or silence,

reason or feelings.

Until you know my mind,

I remain undefined,

unless you look closely,

then you shall see that,

my words betray me,

even to I,

the one inside.

I can trust the,

words, rhythm, and rhyme, 

it flows from my,

deepest cave,

like a giant wave,

endlessly pouring from the ocean of my mind,

nothing is required,

the words flow through,

and I, the humble, squire,

knows not of their origin,

just that all that resides,

in this moment,

behind these eyes,

that darkness,

is where I find,

imagination. 

What runs more wild,

than an unbroken stallion,

swifter then a cheetah,

like the fountain of youth - limitless,

it would be dearly missed,

- imagination (there is no limitation). 

That is where I find myself defined.

And through words I am able to see,

what writing means to me,

it is my mirror,

allowing all to watch in awe,

not just one piece of the puzzle,

but the whole jigsaw.

To each his own,

there is never one way,

no rules on how to use it.

To use it is the nectar,

and all who have tasted,

the sweet honey divine,

can testify,

that that is why writting is like tasting the elixir of the gods, like drinking wine.

Imagination - undefined.

The mystery sublime.