The world is light and color and shape;

The air, a silent voice.

Our eyes and minds can see and hear,

But tongues and pens make clear


Those things that hide behind the glass

The “theres” and the “unseens”

Imagined worlds and galaxies

And thoughts and dreams and fears


A poem is a paper portal

To far reaches of the soul.

A pen – a ship that sails the depths

Of my ever-drifting mind.


For in the mind’s profundity

Is the door to the unknown.

And the edges between what I see

And what I wish to find


Are there made soft and indistinct

And, reaching, I can brush

That image of my inner thought –

That elusive photograph


That, although it lives inside of me - 

The author of my vision - 

It will not surface to be seen,

Resistant to my grasp.


Each time I put my pen tip down

And begin a line to write,

The ship and portal bring to life

What my delving brought about.


No one will see, nor many know

What hides behind my eyes

Or what mysteries of air and space

Have just begun to sprout.


But on a page where, seconds before,

No thing or thought existed;

There grows a world, a universe

A genesis of thinking.


And at that dawn, the world may look

And notice a horizon

Of the person that I really am

The man behind the rhyming.


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