The Spirit of Creation

There comes a time when statements turn to phrases
And phrases smooth to rhyme in rhythmic phases
Where your mind takes a seat as your heart takes the stand
Poetry comes in many forms when you finally understand

My mind is a circus tent, and I'm everyone inside
From the ring leader to the tightrope line
How strange to awake and find only one
Sitting alone eyes closed whispering poetry for no one

Beautiful words falling gently from his lips
I strain to hear each line he so softly emits
He looks like me and sounds like me, but can it really be?
Is it really me that whispers lines of poetry?

It's not me no, my claim to fame is of an observer
My job is simple, I am the watcher and recorder
Understanding is his, the one who dwells within
Fragile yet knowing; the undying spirit of creation