To poets, writing is the blood
that flows through the veins,
words the sinew of their being.
Creating the movement of the
body, finishing uplifts the soul,
failure not an option as the story
must be told.
The lines may read of sadness, of
stars hanging in the dark blue,
shivering in the distance, creating
against all resistance.
Waiting for the finished poem to
float in on a “Morning Doves” wings,
in perfection ones poetry must sing.
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