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A poet is born


When the sounds become quiet
the words dance,
capricious, multicolored, light
like stones thrown close to the water
in waves,
they dangle,
multiply.
The nameless,
love and death
budge in the images;
branches and flowers,
full of life..... rock
The poet is born
the only way he knows
holding to beauty

I like your poem and its images, and love your ending:

The poet is born
the only way he knows
holding to beauty

A great visual.

Love,
Lizzy

Thank you Lizzie.....that came to my mind in english...