But Mostly Poetry Fills Me

with the urge to write poetry,  

to sit in the dark and wait  

for a little flame to appear  

at the tip of my pencil.  

I scribble down half thoughts  

that drift on paper like ghosts,  

white whispers on quiet nights,  

as shadows dance in the room.  

The world outside fades away,  

each car horn, each streetlight  

becomes a distant memory  

lost in the circle of my lamp.  

The words form fragile bridges  

to places I have never been,  

a forest lit by fireflies,  

an ocean stilled by moonlight.  

Soon, dawn cracks across the sky,  

its gold spilling over rooftops.  

I sit on my chair like a monk,  

waiting for the next sacred text. 

Here, in the quiet emergence,  

I find the simplest of truths:  

poetry begets more poetry,  

echoes in the silent dark.