The Inner Poet Within

My inner poet looks like the mighty forces of nature; rolling thunderclouds, howling winds and flashes of lightning; but still retaining the beauty of nature in the epic sunsets of the Gulf of Mexico and the mighty rocky mountains of North America.  He feels freedom, the wind rushing beneath him as he stands on cliffs above the tree-clad valleys far below.  He sees the waning rays of the sun strike the mighty thunderstorms of  the mid-west; he sees the deep, star-filled skies high in the mountains and the soft, rhythmic motion of the waves on sandy beaches.  What he thinks, only he can know, for without the will to speak, what can he say?  He exists because I am he.  The escape from the mundane life of day to day, the embodiment of what I wish was, and the hope of a tomorrow better than yesterday's.  I and him, and he is my eyes to a world only I can know.  A world that exists, but exists not; that is seen, but remains unseen;  that is everywhere, but nowhere; where the laws of science govern, sometimes.  It is the land of my imagination and he is the key to the door. The door which opens to the land beyond containing what nobody else knows except him and myself; because I am him and he is the one who says, "look."