User Rating: 0 / 5

Star InactiveStar InactiveStar InactiveStar InactiveStar Inactive
 

 

 

When gray hours loom, I hide away and write.

I trip all over unpoetic feet,

craft metaphors arcane and recondite,

expose my heart with candor indiscreet.

Poetry requires the pensive mood.

My mind's odd clutter yields forgotten toys.

Like mice, my furtive fancies oft intrude,

and measured syllables resound with voice.

Then into spiral notebooks go those lines,

to lie forgotten on some dusty shelf,

but when in later years my sick soul whines

and burrows through dark muck to seek itself,

Yes, then with joy of rediscovery

I find reminders of who once was me.

 

Image Credit: Gaelic Poet at Wikimedia Commons

Visit us on...

__________________ 

Advertise With Us

For more details, contact

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

__________________

Protected by Copyscape Web Plagiarism Finder

 
Go to top