The Poet

The poet sits in a quiet room staring at an empty page

How to begin a final act when the whole world is a stage

Buried completely under a mountain of stray thoughts

Yet digging deeper for a treasure long since sought

Gilded eyes uncovering a clearing in the woods

Where a breeze as gentle as a silk clad hand is blowing through

Where a pair of eyes might finally meet in the cover of the shade

That's the power of

The words on a page

The moving sun tells the time across the sky