A real storm  invades my whole being 
It's neither thunder nor rain
Rather fusses of my brain 
A shadow is crossing my mind
With whispers annoying my head 
My memory is confused with wonderings

Questioning myself always 
Is it a soul a ghost or some fairies
The question has been torturing me over and over since
The traits of such a face elude and seem dubious

Between imagination, deep sleep and awakening
I keep looking for a clear interpretation 

Figuring out the meaning 
Of missives disturbing my faculties and dreaming

 
Inspiration is a strange flow pouring

In shape of thoughts and feeling

My pen is bleeding with words knitting 

Pushing me to write them down in rhyme scheming

No wonder poets appear to be insane 

Poetry is a versecraft agonizing

Every bit in humans'trunk is speaking 

To set up a at the end the best stanza or a quatrain