You can't beg poetry to kiss you,

like a moon, it'll come to you,

in your darkest hours.

Like silver thoughts and waning words,

scattering like a Tyndall in a pine forest.

You can't ask poetry to stay with you,

like an ebb and flow of a tide,

it'll find your feet, once it has explored the edge,

it'll leave you again with,

glistening sand and softened footprints.

You can't bind poetry,

but it'll always be like a warm embrace to your honey soul.

It will be like a hand to hold you up

when your body has given up.

Then you'll find the people,

whom you'll never meet,

standing on the doorsteps with open arms,

welcoming you home.