Tell the angels not to weep
In fear their loving tears seep
Downward from a heavenly sky
Beauty it is meant to die
In squalor poverty is stood
Its heart of stone, its frame of wood.
And lest the blossoms petals fall
In twirling flight to greet the call
Of the fire in such haunted eyes
Upon vibrant wings
Those silken strings
A voice to echo still.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: April 28th, 2023 03:51
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Bobby O
Offline)
Comments1
A voice to echo still.
hope you liked it
Very much so.
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