Kevin Michael Bloor

The Chosen One

The poet’s soul is like no other;
‘Tis sister to the stars and brother
To faery folk, each mystic creature
And goddess girls who’ll never feature
Or figure in most mortal’s thinking;
(I’ve seen them mock while slyly winking.)

The poet’s soul it senses beauty
And deems it her most solemn duty
To paint a picture on her pages,
With words of wisdom: just like sages!
Yet not pretentious, paltry preaching;
With rhyme, she’s teasing, never teaching!

The poet’s soul is swathed in sorrow.
For beauty, to be born tomorrow
Will not be held or owned by many;
She weeps and wonders if there’s any
Who’ll wake when world is filled with gladness
And sun has set on all this sadness.

The poet’s soul is slowly dying;
It’s drained of blood and tears from trying
(With desperation’s deep desire
And heaven’s true immortal fire)
To touch the hearts: stone cold and frozen;
O how she wished she’d not been chosen!


  • Laura


    My first read of the day! Truly an exceptional and appreciated dedication for your poet friends! After reading this, I know I can embrace the many difficulties I’ll be facing during this day!

    Thank you for sharing!


    • Kevin Michael Bloor

      Thank you, Laura. Hope your day is going well. Glad you liked my little poem. 😉

      • Laura

        You’re welcome!

        I love your ‘little poem’...and my day is going better than expected! 🌻

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