Degrees of warmth

It's cold outside
and I don't want to swim
the length of the ocean
or the span of the river.

It's cold in my heart
I feel I could die
Without your warmth
Or your fire within.

It's cold outside
And I am alone
I've no wood for fire
I've no flint for flame.

It's cold in my heart
My spark is slowly dying
My soul is slolwy decaying
My mind is forever reeling.


It's cold outside
Frost covers the windows
Impossible to see within
Or without. The fire is gone.

It's cold in my heart
Which beats it's last beat
My blood stills in my body
My body freezes on the floor.

It's cold ouside
as it's cold in my heart.

The arts as scene.

What does it mean to be a poet?
To write down words that rhyme?
To capture emotion in time?
To see things for what they are?
To know a soul can fly far?

What does it mean to be a writer?
To make a story which all will read?
To create characters who bed and plead?
To write imagery to be seen in the mind?
To stir up emotions of every kind?

What does it mean to be an artists?
To take a scene and trap it with pen?
To concieve an oil paiting to hang in a den?
To get abstract so none can understand?
To provoke a thought in the mind, to the hand?


The poet, the writer, the artists.
Each unique in their own way
Each do the same any given day.
To create beauty, is what sets them apart.
And bring to the world masterful works of art.