A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep,
Now still, yet present in the waning light;
Fueled by the flame of memories we keep.
A poet gathers thought and hope anew,
As golden hours paint the sky’s embrace,
Where burnished hues in quietude imbue
The heart with echoes of a timeless grace.
Poetry, a dream in words unconfined,
Garbed in the hues of longing’s soft caress,
With verses meandering, sweetly entwined,
A tapestry of whispered tenderness.
It takes but one soft whisper, light as air,
To free the wandering soul from despair.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 29th, 2024 04:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 39
Offline)
Comments6
Feels just about write .. been there so many times .. both seen the light and heard the whisper .. darn near sends one mad, dunnit 🐧👍
Too true!
Beautifully stated is such solid verse it sounds classic and serves as a good definition for the word poem itself, I think I'll contact mister Webster. Lovely my cryptic friend.
Sounds mighty serious getting the Mister himself involved! Thanks Soren. 🙂
Excellent
A long way from a comfortable armchair to a fired up PC....occasionally I get there in time.
But then again, none of mine seem to fit the specifications embodied in the last quatrain.
If you've got it, then go for it!🙂
And if it doesn’t that’s no skin off anyone’s nozzle! Thanks mate 🙏🏻
And did I mention your sonnet must surely inspire...?
A wonderful sonnet arqios.
Andy
Thanks Andy 🙏🏻
Suitable praise for poetry and the poet, in this case, you. Nice work.
Thanks kindly DW 🙏🏻
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