Painters can not paint so well
The beauty that they see,
For often are their eyes cast
Upon a lonely sea

Where cresting waves
Are composed of fleeting foam
And just their frail mortality

And writers sometimes miss
Their mark - in their rush of inspiration
Often there is a pause... A break
Of thought that is silence to the word

But if I could find that treasure
Of the finest golden expression
From the pen of a bygone age
I would write your names

Across the sky... In a frenzy
Of wild, whimsical beauty
And sing your praises

Though the world thinks me mad...
I have lived more deeply in imagination
Than dens of thieves in their schemes
Of greed and dark delusions

To control the wind the waves the sky
Or the wildness
That flows through my Aegean blood
Into the bursting of my heart

Then back again into the endless sea
That ever is the mystery of me.

This is for all the beautiful friends I have met here at AD! Thankyou, for you are all poets par excellence!