Speaking is futile, as words die out,

 for sound only lasts so long, and thoughts can only wither on, 

 since time foretells the fate of words, which shrivel and whisper into the ears of few

 

Yet writing, 

is an extension of expression, for words prevail on paper, as one exhales their soul 

All piles down from within, like a formidable wave that yearns to anchor onto sand

With the movement of the hand,

one plays the cords of poetic flavor,

fulfilling from within, as radiance is now savored,

for it seems that gates have been exposed to eternal rest,

and with the marital union of paper and pen, one can commend thoughts to perpetuate on

 

Such 

zest fulfills me,

for my brain searches through the abyss,

to contemplate the desire to escape between the lines,

where emotions never die,

and ambiguity one cannot dispel,

when constellations portray

the face of an intrinsic light

 

Upon its recognition

poetry was rooted in my intuition,

without marks, I could not be set free,

inner words would beg of me,

to plant a kiss upon a script’s cheek

And every time I scribbled on,

the deed became a second nature,

extensive force was not required,

all was gently acquired,

for the rhyme that was within began to orchestrate into reality

for I found myself in thoughts, and thoughts I had to explore

to instill the force that once - I could not pour