Strange poems happen at 2am

Leda

Tell me again,
What the wild swan sounds like.
Not that sneaky god,
But the one that loved her
And dreamt of feathers to flesh,
Mouth to laughing beak.
How sad she must have been
That he wasn't really a swan;
With elegant neck,
And blood beating wings,
The gift of flight.
When she found a man,
Spoiled by his own radiance,
No wonder her daughter
Broke the world's heart.
That disappointed beauty,
That secret song.

A little something inpsiring

"The Quality of Light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives. It is within this light that we form those ideas by which we pursue our magic and make it realized. This is poetry as illumination, for it is through poetry that we give name to those ideas which are - until the poem - nameless and formless, about to be birthed, but already felt. That distillation of experience from which true poetry springs births thought as dreams, births concepts as feeling, births ideas as knowledge, births (precedes) understanding.
As we learn to bear the intimacy of scrutiny and to flourish within it, as we learn to use the products of that scrutiny for power within our living, those fears which rule our lives and form our silences begin to lose their control over us."

Audre Lorde