TIMELESS

When I write a poem, strange thoughts,

Pass through my mind.

I have visions of mysterious words,

Unfamiliar smells and sounds.

I can feel the Sun, upon my skin,

Without even seeing him.

I can hear the Moon, she calls to me,

In my heart.

Strange emotions, dreams and feelings,

Are written with fear.

To write; is to risk,

Satisfaction.

To write; is to risk,

Humiliation.

And strangers read and read again,

And yet never understand.

This need to share, the memories that last,

And thoughts transparent.

To write, it is a craving.

A desire, timeless.

Text © D.B. Griffith the Chattering Magpie