So oft the mind spins words to phrase
when staring at a blank filled page
null and void of shape of word
in silent longing from an urge,

of eternal voice of poet
who welcomes in the words bestowed it
to put in type a set of words
that must be wrote and can't be heard,

in the worlds of dazzling sights
where senses wake with visual delights
but must be heeded all the same
to steady yearnings of refrains,

voiced in mind when ere' is woke
the soul of poet so seldom spoke
amidst the glamor of all that's seen
that rush and fade to white washed dream.

While word and writer bond to make
a place for them to there create
a memory of times once shared
in friendship where for words they cared,

as guardians of the blessed gift
put to type and set adrift
in turquoise seas of emerald shores
where bade the life of every poet.