How do I help. What do I do. When will I learn how to pass love to all of you.

My desire from the blue, to write a song, letter or poem that’s true. Thin from air the words like a bird fly. Salty are the tears they bring to the eyes.

For singers they shall sing, high on that stage their love echoes. Heart erupting my ears a lovely ring, for a moment my soul vibrates like a cello.

And where their guile and howls may be profound, I’m left with just a sound. Questions without answers my search like a circle, I’m forever turned round and round.

For writers they shall write, the tomes crafted a lovers delight. Whisking this reader through a world of mystery, my revelations leave a future filled with history.

Sure their expulsion of ghosts amaze the psyche, although I’m left yet again with questions who’s promises are secrets held tightly.

Then there are the poets they dance with their prose, as they find in me equal parts joy and woes. I bask in their twinkle my eyes alight like a star. The journey prophetic their stories find me both near and far.

I’m sure it’s the cadence that finds me a shutter, as my voice at last comes alive with a stumble as I utter…

“How do I help. What do I do. I’ve finally learned how to pass love to all of you. As close as can be that day we finally see, that it was us we had to love in order to be set free.”