I see it there,
the hours I’ve spent alone.
Small and red,
My mind begins to wander.
A doubt of shame,
is not what I feel.
You may seem scared,
By what I’ve done.
Without my hand,
My job won’t end.
Stop and marvel.
You see, the work I do.
To make my art.
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Author:
Alfred Lord Tennyson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 14th, 2018 08:00
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is different from what I have written in the past, and due to its multiple comprehensions of the writing, I would love feedback on what you believe it means.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
Offline)
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