The private poet, who sleeps so soundly in this bag of bones,
sometimes awakes, to whisper wonder words that I should pen - to please him,
since he is a poet after all.
He’s shy, yet eager to be read, sung or heard.
As if he were a soothing symphony or waves that swish and splash and wash ashore
a goddess girl for mortals to adore.
This poet, who's the peevish part of me, is tetchy, so I rarely rouse him up.
He slumbers, till my muse decides it's time
to raise a glass of rare reclusive rhyme.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 13th, 2024 01:37
- Category: Humor
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments1
Good to read you again. Write more - not be too reclusive!
Thanks, O.
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