This is just a poem I jotted down one night (I very rarely write poetry, as I'm really not a poet, but this is how the words came). I journal a lot, so this poem is, on the surface, about writing. On a deeper level, however, it's a metaphor for a life that struggles to make sense of itself, but prays to "write" the things that count.
My heart is full, the page is white,
And words make shadows in the night.
They float through mists like birds aflight,
But phantoms cannot catch the light.
Thought runs swiftly into feeling,
Tumbling, into darkness reeling,
Words are quickly over-keeling,
Senseless things, devoid of meaning.
The page lifts up its gentle face,
Still pure as winter's white embrace.
I close the book and breathe a prayer:
May gold, not dross, be written there.