Darkness falls over the day, distraught, the sounds they cry out in despair. A cloud descends o’er my eyes this night as I sleep between dark and light. What before me lays quiet as a shell in the sand, left broken, alone. It is poetry I see as it jumps up to dance, its parts out of reach, it taunts with a glance. What is this thing they call poetry? Much of it lost like words in the sea. They float through time and space to land, like seagulls they walk free through sand. Spanning the pages in groups they meander, making words into verses, come, give a gander. They float in and though like seaweed on the tide. Each line like a wave, constant, but not, suddenly one on the beach it is caught. Together lines come make a stanza, the last line a wave as it touches your feet. The melodic rhythm with ebb and flow, it suddenly mixes and changes it goes. What is this thing they call poetry, where is it now and how can it be? I awaken to know it is lost on me.