some thinking....

The poetry will not come to me
Like a book too big to open
Its mysteries remain
intact
Brushing up against my heart
And then fading
Leaving a few patches of coloured dye
Fluttering wings
Limp
My head falls to the ground once more
Tired of churning
spinning whirring
Hurting.
The poetry will not come to me
Hidden in these waters and caves
it shivers knowing how it could
Change things
Bounce around in someone's head
(or heart, more likely)
And touch them deeper than ever before.