Looking at a clear blue sky,

A glorious day,

No; not for me,

I look through my poet's eye.

The need to see colours,

To see forms in all variances,

Floating gentley by,

Where is the mist.

The mist must rise,

Before the cloud can form,

Have the poet's lost their song,

Is the thought bank empty.

Can the poet's soul,

Think things into existence,

Would the flesh be the mediator,

For the timeless source of thought's and ,

The created world,

Will the poetic third element,

That which over time,

Has developed gifts and skills,

Communicate the invisible,

Through the visible.

If this were to be enabled,

Then the mist can rise,

The clouds form,

And when they are,

Full to the brim,

And if only,

One drop of rain should fall,

Glistening with a spectrum of colour,

In the sunlight.

Then my poet creature,

Would gladly,

Turn on it's hard shelled back,

Rocking to and throu,

Exposing it's vunerable, soft belly,

To the atmospheric conditions,

To any animal ready to devour,

Doing it joyfully,

Because it has been blinded to danger,

Rejoicing,

It can here the song of poet's,

The much needed event has arrived.