There is a never ending poem
deep in her eyes
Filled with colorful notes
Of every word she sighs
It runs down her cheeks and sparkles with delight
Becoming summer’s dew
From a thunderous night
Past the poetry brightly gleaming
Depths of imagery she is dreaming
Drawing upon her lust for life
Her pours are filled with poetic vice
Never able to put on paper
Her muse is what matters
Babs Work In Progress 