I’m talentless, but stirred to scribe.
Least member of the rhymester tribe.
I’ll never paint a work of art,
but ‘neath my rhymes there beats a heart.
A heart of gold, not heart of stone.
A mortal, made of flesh and bone.
A poet, who a Muse once kissed,
Then vanished like the morning mist.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 19th, 2024 05:12
- Comment from author about the poem: pity the poor poet
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sami mulaj
Offline)
Comments1
Well said for all poets. Loved this piece.
Thank you, Soren.
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