The Poet’s poetry, so named and justly so
by his brethren his dress of words that live
deeply in a mind that longs release from
all his pain to gain respect not disgust
from his shabby dress.
In his lonely hours he penned words so fluently
that flowed so effortlessly from his quill left
still in feathered peace beside his bed.
His ordered verse came smoothly with
a rhyme or two left over from the chilled
cold air left in his chamber silent and poorly
lit from lonely hours spent there.
Upon his page he lingered often with
harsh industry and strife while his veins
pulsated and his eyes would fill with
sudden tears from a heart so bled.
Why he pleaded should my eyes be
so red to touch my heart to open your
own eyes to overflowing joy or dread
I set forth with drowsy thoughts of
summer days I say let my lips.
Wet with emotion and passionate thrill
all who want to listen to me still pass
my thoughts of lofty songs and words
before they flee and fly away from
me lost forever like a moth on wing
fluttering in my candle light.
With pen afire I seduce each word
uttered and summon back at will my
thoughts of yesterdays gone by with
crude lines I feared then as a boy yet
now I glow and mend with rapture and
saving grace impassioned every thought
and felt from my soul.
Translucent like the beauty of our earth
I write the words inspired me in wonder
and delight feeling calmly the might
of my quill I slightly tap its feather under
chin and grin content I sweep the dust
away from my scribe to lay it gently on
it’s side to be read in the morning glow
as I rest my weary head upon my desk
I listen to the tempest sing a lullaby so
sweet I cling and fall to sleep
at last to dream.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.