Rhyming words!

Many geese on waters blue.

A lone bird readily stands but he will never fly unless he gives word to the man whose hand so often brings him into the sky.

A man once walked a lonely road, never alone.

One vast sea of twinkling lights.

In the day, so in the night, he seeks to find.

Shining bright, a moon-lit sky shares its might.

Many moons, and its sun still shining.

Beneath the cover of a book, a man that looks may find others of his kind.

One in the chamber, two in the snow.

Through the crowd and out the door, he stands alone just as before.

The start of it all, is a beautiful things.

And so it is, and must it be, for fallen trees have settled leaves.

For many days he sought her kiss.

A star should stand forever still.

Shadows draw long from the limbs of trees as the sun sinks softly down low.

Four, there are many, around the fire.

Written words sing like birds, giving life to thoughts seldom spoken.

Spoken lies, like greying skies, announce loudly what will come to be.

He feels so strange as he peers down across the page that he has found.

A man with memories once stood to tell a story of treachery, having been through hell and back again, to his amaze.

He stands alone, though in a room with many others.

A forgotten light, the end of his path.

In the dark so in the day, the dragon lies, he sits in wait.

Its leather bound by careful hands, its stories lost in shifting sands.

Oil burns on the stove.

Pit-pitter-patter comes down the rain.

He makes amends -- his heart in hand.

Sitting quietly on an old rocky hill.

Smelling sour, the milk turns in a bowl left out for a while.

Souls above, and brothers below.

Spoken word, I never find quite as good as the kind of thought that lies in darkened ink atop a page that makes you think.

Nowhere to turn, no burns left to heal.

It stretches on and into the night, it is truly the greatest sea.

The great divide grows with haste as we ignore what we must face.

If ever you find some gem for low cost, perhaps, sit and wonder if the seller is lost.

Seldom gray the swirling tides.

The wind whispers to the birds.

Thinking aloud to those who listen.

Thoughts of thought are ill begotten.

Three stand still, atop a hill.

Through the hall and up the stairs, through the door -- the bed is bare.

These things we are told which lie in the mind we are not meant to hold as we each one day find.

When we do things with force they will never be true, they are denied a justice between me and you.

Within each mind we find a book.

Without love, a man cannot be.

It was on this night a young man learned -- his ears alight, but not having heard and instead seen -- that these volumes of words could make a man dream -- and make a soul bright.