What are my words
To the blind, mute and deaf?
Illegible scrawling by a broken hand
Twisting and falling
Failing to realign the sailor off-course.
What are lines to mountains
When shapes and grooves
Bend and snake their way
With rough mannerisms
And heavy tongues?
What are songs to the valleys
Whose melodies ring triumphant
And the wind recalls nary a note,
Its stanzas superior to man?
What are feelings to the ocean
Wide, deep and wise
Untainted by regret?
What is love
To the willow by the lake
Whose hair dips low?
What is hate
To the moss underneath?
These I ponder as I lie awake
Yet I still write…
For what?
To live, not merely survive.
Moonlit Poetry 