Thursday, 12 November 2015


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,
To write; is to risk,

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

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