Held Within

There is a poem inside of me,
beneath the skin I've used so often
to hide the secrets I can't see.
It fills my blood, changing the beat of my heart
to the pound of a meter I can no longer hear,
and as it rushes through my veins,
my mind dances from thought to thought,
in spiralling patterns too complex to contemplate,
trying in desolate desperation
to write in green ink on the wall
the things that plain words cannot cover,
or tell in song:
the things that linger in souls:
the things that are whispered by flickering flames,
the things that wind sings on lonely moors,
the things that trees clutch tight in their centre,
the things that are captured
by the fluttering pulse

of poems.