Broken

If wings were words born to fly, one would wonder: could poems fill the deep blue sky? And if songs truly rode upon the clouds, ponder, could rain fall as if singing out loud? Great poems seldom make it to the printed page; they just become feelings in flight, ever growing deeper with age. Innocent we are born and broken we die; when released, souls become words that freely shall fly. Some of the best poems get cut right in two, left to die where they lie, far beyond the world's small and narrow view. Yet the poet must give it a go, following a small voice whispering: this is the only way you shall ever truly know. I write 100 poems, of which perhaps one is nearly good; the words seldom flow as smoothly as they should. Two things of life I shall never fully comprehend, how it all began… and how it all will end. My thirst is far different than one might think, I go to the dry desert, my soul for to give a long and lasting drink. Of those 99 poorly-poems only one may turn to the good; oh, but if I were capable I would freely give to everyone, all the words I know I should. However; for now my thinking comes in fragments broken and sparse, of the words, not whole nor complete, I can only offer up delicate bits and parts.