Collecting my thoughts,

That are sleeping in my mind.

Dressing them with words,

Until they are refined.

Clever is the weaver,

Who leaves nothing to chance.

He hones the words used,

And lets them on the paper dance.

He is no magician,

Just a poet with his words.

Seeking an audiance,

As a singer wants to be heard.

And when his poem is done,

He can read it aloud.

Music to his ears,

That he hopes pleases the crowd.