A poem.

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A word, a phrase,

 A sigh, a face.

It begins.
An immaculate voice,
But a blurring pace.
It comes to you.
Taps on the screen,
Or curls on the paper.
It comes to life.
Rushing, rushing, rushing,
It pours out.
It shapes itself.
A breath stuck in your throat,
Then a huge huff of relief.
It’s real.
He reads it, she reads it.
It makes its way where it’s supposed to be.
It’s made it.
A word, a phrase,
A sigh, a face.
Sometimes it never goes off.
No voice, no pace,
No hitting of waves.
Sometimes you’re dry.
It loses its way,
It takes new shapes.
It stumbles back,
You know when it’s there.
And like everything in nature,
It comes back around.
And it begins, again.
Happy World Poetry Day!