The Poet's Desk

Her pen races 'cross paper,
but can't keep up with her mind.
Words pouring forth,
neither gentle nor kind.

She knows she should write
what people want to see,
but instead, this time,
she writes truth, as she feels it to be.

O' she's flew with Pegasus,
sipped nectar of the Gods,
and she's been to depths of hell
where even angels fear to trod.

She's soared with eagles,
in blue velvet skies,
and lived in hell, where all she heard were the damned
screaming their hopeless cries.

Yes, she has soared with eagles,
known ecstasy when she touched the unicorn,
Flown with the Phoenix and from these fires, she's been reborn

So she writes the words, just the way she feels, can you tell when they're fantasy?

Or when they are real?

Or this one Please

0 soul of mine, will you never be good and sincere, all one,
all open, visible to the beholder
more clearly than even your encompassing body of flesh?

Will you never taste the sweetness
of a loving and affectionate heart?

Will you never be filled full and unwanting;
craving nothing,
yearning for no creature
or thing to minister to your pleasures,

no prolongation of days to enjoy them,
no place or country
or pleasant clime
or sweet human company?

--Marcus Aurelius--

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