The poet

He sits alone At his wooden desk Head bowed in prayer To the God of poetry He picks up his quill Dips it in the ink And shakes off the excess Poised to write his work The nib gently scratches Leaving marks of deep blue Staining the parchment Like a painting of words And as he sits Something happens To the dry ink And worn-out parchment It comes to life Pouring beauty from it's page A myriad of meanings It breathes And it seeps Into mens minds Whispers in dreams It lives And at his desk The poet sits quietly And his work takes a life Of it's own