What really is this writing bug

that makes me think, of you,

a fever to excite my brain

cotton ball clouds, sky of Royal Blue

Holding jars of Alabaster

women float into view,

my past with its old memories

the future with desires for you

The past hangs there

in the hallways of my soul,

water flows down a mountain stream

life is but a dream I know

In the stillness of my heart

I breathe a new vision inside,

to be who I was meant to be

only in poetry do I hide

This desire, this passion to write

this hunger burning in my place,

to see you up close, kiss your mouth,

to breathe your scent, your beautiful face

Write cries the Muse-Write On!

so I write near the Dark Sky,

do you have sweet incense, Garden Flower

if you desire me, do not ask why