You're the colour on a rainy day,
The bismuth lining every drop,
The strength for weary eyes,
So I can rest my heart and finally stop,

In striving and in solitude,
My confident, my friend,
My intercessor, advocate,
Draw me always back to mend.

Where is the poem?
Not now I assumed,
But as now leapt on,
I ponder anew,
Is the poem now here,
Unfinished but due,
Awaiting full stop,
Each poem's sole muse,
For every poem must end,
To this end its true,
Where is the poem?
The poem's now with you.

'Poems came'
Whispered the weary eyes,
Blinking silent syllables at the screen,
Thinking of the many lights that sought to meet it in its depths,
Yet it returned to the screen once again,
For it shines the warmest light on deepest darkest pupils,
A chorus of static fizzing meets the eyes,
Friendship for the tired days,
They sit still again,
For silence is the talk of sleepy friends.