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.