The Silent Weaver
Threads of passion, unseen, untold,
A weaver's craft spun in hues of gold.
No coin to clink, no laurels to claim,
Yet the heart whispers, "Create just the same."
Each word, a seed, in barren land sown,
Each thought, a jewel in the mind's unknown.
For art is the pulse, the quiet refrain,
Of souls that dare to dream despite pain.
Fame eludes, like shadows that flee,
Riches absent, yet the spirit stays free.
For in the act, the soul takes flight,
Unpaid, unnamed, but basked in light.
O poet, O dreamer, your gift transcends,
Beyond fleeting applause or worldly ends.
For those who create without demand,
Hold the universe gently within their hand.
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Author:
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Offline) - Published: April 2nd, 2025 10:36
- Comment from author about the poem: Here’s a poem that reflects the bittersweet reality of creating without the promise of reward, and the beauty in perseverance:
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
Offline)
Comments3
Art resides within the heart and needs no pay. A lovely write
very much enjoyed, thanks for sharing
very much enjoyed thanks for sharing
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