! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! As The Ink Begins To Run...! ! ! ! ! ! !

A sheaf of papers got swept with the breeze, Like kites my poems took flight with ease. I watched as drifted and fell to the ground, On the freshly mowed grass, without a sound. Is there anything new about my thoughts? I wondered feeling a bit startled and distraught. What ever makes me feel they are so very unique? Aren’t they intrinsic part of being human, felt intrigued? Dark clouds gathered and hid the setting Sun, Soon light showers soaked the papers, ink began to run, Like salty tears wet the cheeks of an overwhelmed heart. How come I feel free … I muttered to no one with a start.