This Poem

Here I am, writing this poem
When hundreds of other things
Scream out for my attention

As Autumn’s bluster
Rustles the treetops
Waving red, orange and gold
Here I am, writing this poem

The hairs on the back
Of my neck rise in the air, electric
Sending shivers
Never have I felt more alive,
And it feels like this every time

When the words are right
They flow on
Like some lazy river
Sourced in a land faraway
That just never runs dry

Here I am, writing this poem
And in a hundred years from now
Some stranger, yet to be born, will Read these words and share the Same moment, will be intrigued
But not know why

They’ll have hundreds
Of other things
Screaming out for their attention
But there they’ll be,
Reading this poem.

~ Eric Vance Walton ~

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