why then the poems

Why do they come,

to me.

No children have I created,

nor will that ever be.

Two children I have, 

a gift from the handmaiden.

Though they are the very joy, of my life,

They were not my creations.

The poems then are my creations.

The need to create drives me now.

These revelations from the muze.

Like a great pouring, of lava, 

flowing forth, from a caldera.

Has it always been there?

Deep within my soul?

Out it comes now, all the heartache, 

pain, and joy

It redirects the streams of joy,

flowing forth from my soul.

That I may nourish the seeds,

hidden deep in your soul.