No ideas are pulsing through my imagination,
I sit typing words,
that grow in rhythms and sounds,
but the words signify nothing,
and I begin to wonder should I continue?
should I only write when I have
some thing definitive to say?
Maybe I write to much?
then I think of our troubled world,
all its turbulance, fears and hates.
I look again, get encouragement from my wife,
and writing friends,
the poem grows ,as my brain fades towards
my warm, comfortable bed.