Creases Of The Mind.
Ideas in the mind are like furrows in a field
Some thoughts grow, whilst others yield
To the memories of a life lived in pain
Where nothing was tried, and nothing was to gain.
Along came a seed, and it sprouted into life.
The mind started to crease, the forehead frowned,
The eyes looked down and a pencil was found.
Words flowed, they would not cease
Until at last the mind found its release.
A poet was born, the words travelled far
They crossed the land, opening doors ajar.
the love entered minds, it lowered the shield.
Ideas in the mind are like furrows in a field.