The brain is not the place I find my words,
The organ where I have the space to think;
It’s in my heart where poetry is stirred
And fuel for my writing is not ink.
I cherish old expressions with the new,
Rework and craft them into sentences;
Repetition of sentiment to you
Emphasises all my purest senses.
But in the sense of age we are not young;
Time’s mark is etched on our vitality.
Love does not forget songs already sung,
It weaves them into our life’s tapestry.
As long as my imagination lives
I shall have unlimited words to give.