again,
      a memory whispers
                      in the poet's ear
                                he knows he must write
                    whatever this voice finds for him
                                                      his mood must change...
                            as words flow from hand to page
                he can not hide
                                  in fear of nothing to say...
                        for there are many words
                                                  that express the false hopes
                                                                          he still believes in...
                                              for he still believes true love
                                will endure somehow...
                                                it is just a matter of timing.
                            as he loses himself
                                      in daydreams and fictional reality
                      he sits back in wonder
                                          at what appears before him
                          the phrases form into
                                    what his heart already knows
            that he is just passing the time
                            between lost love     
                                              and futile hope
                                    his poem is a mirror of his fate
                  where nightmare images often appear
                                    but the thought of not finding these images
                makes him cringe in fear
                          for he needs them
                                to satisfy his all encompassing need
                    to release the emotion
              that fills his soul.
      and a poem is written,
again.