Poetry frequently cleanses
the palette of my soul.
Gently transfer of words to paper
will again make me whole.
Clearing out the dark recesses;
allowing fresh ideas opportunity to sprout.
For its better they serve a useful purpose,
than to lie stagnant in doubt.
I’ve fostered them long enough,
confident they’ll find a new home.
Giving them freedom of choice;
ability to make a course of their own.
Like small saplings exposed to the elements;
they must fight to survive.
Some will wither and die from exposure,
but others will conquer and thrive.
I hope they’ll not hold it against me
if I was premature in setting them free.
Better to let them see light and breathe on their own,
than to stay imprisoned in me.
Someday they may come back,
thankful for the sanctuary I gave.
Or possibly others may curse me
for not allowing them to remain my slave.
But surely in the end they’ll see,
it was I who gave them life at the start.
They flooded and wandered my soul
and had been given birth in my heart.
I can only hope as with a child,
they visit often when I’ve grown old.
Intently I’ll listen as they speak proudly,
of their adventures and actions so bold.