there is a language,
of clear skies and fluffy
sheep-like clouds
of tree-whispers
and shooting stars.
it is spoken
in smile-lined faces
and shining eyes,
old, worn books
and ink-stained fingers.
it does not need an alphabet
nor any characters
for it is written
in the wind, the stars
and sea.
it is not a language
to be learned, but
to be remembered.
it asks nothing but
to be listened to.
she comes from a world
of puddles and stars.
from a world where
lion and lamb play
innocently, happily together.
a world where she wears
her heart on her sleeve,
and hopes and trusts although
emptiness is sort of strange, isn't it?
when you've got
an empty piggybank
or
an empty backpack
it isn't much,
it's nothing really.
but to feel empty,
to feel hollow and frankly
i don't know who i am
nor do i think i ever will
but
i want to be so much.
i want to be a poet,
carefully nurturing
then raising and sharing,
the sustenance of the soul.
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