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!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 12th, 2019 08:53
- Comment from author about the poem: For my poet friends
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments1
Kevin,
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!
Laura
Thank you, Laura. Hope your day is going well. Glad you liked my little poem. 😉
You’re welcome!
I love your ‘little poem’...and my day is going better than expected! 🌻
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