Mind of a poet

The mind of a poet is a twisted place
A restless needle on a compass face.
The tempting gray between black and white,
The enchanting play between dark and light;
Where dreams take shape and thoughts take flight.

In the stormiest desert where roses bloom,
The farthest corners of a shadowy room.
There lies emotions of such conflicting hues,
Confessions that contradict all we choose;
Until all that's left is a mind and a muse.

Forever in struggle to understand,
The world; and self on the other hand.
Caught between society and a wavering line
Where all that's real and unreal combine;
That mind of a poet, I fear, is mine.