The poet

A poet never knows which way  
  his pen will go, his mind will go;  
the canvas of the soul  
heeds his worded strokes --  
but the image remains unseen.

Just as we speak from feeling,  
making full sentences  
  not knowing them beforehand,

there is a vastness, unfilled,  
begging for that single drop...  
whose echoes  
are the shape of my words on paper.