Kevin Michael Bloor

The Chosen

The poet’s soul is like no other;
it’s sister to the stars and brother
to fairy 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 a most solemn duty
to prompt the poet put on pages
warmer words than sly old like sages;
they're too pretentious, prone to preaching;
the world is tired of tearless teaching!

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

The soul is sad; the poet’s dying;
has shed the blood and tears from trying
(with desperation’s deep desire
and heaven’s true immortal fire)
to touch the hearts: stone cold and frozen;
a curse, it is, to be the chosen!


  • dusk arising

    Chosen?.. maybe... Cursed... probably, for i could not lay my pen down.

    When i am not requiting lovesickness or loss, fantasy in dream like fairytales or ranting politics I am somebody else it seems.

    Wonderful poetry from you today.

  • Goldfinch60

    Such true words Kevin. Words of all emotions just seem to flow from us all as we write.


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