Imagined Words

When I was young
I used the write stories and poetry
In my head.

Too quick for pen and paper
The stories unfolded before my mind’s eye,
Like drops of rain I could try
To catch them,
But surely I would miss too many to try,

I would lie in bed
With words my dreams,
With words the sheep I would count,
But surely with such tales on play
There was no way rest I would take

I would imagine the words
Being spoken from my mouth,
The thought of the sound of my own voice,
Catching and releasing the words from my lips,
And yet not a noise would be made.

When I was young
I was a dreamer,
An artist,
A dream artist,
Painting mental pictures
Of the imagined works
of this poetess.

Her Light

Thought of him
And the poetess lights up,
By starlight she feverishly crafts her song,
Of, for, inspired by
Her muse, her light