Poetry is the silent cry of a thousand hearts,
A wildfire of feeling that scorches the page.
For the poets, it is not a mere white horse—
But a thunderbolt wrapped in wings,
A force that cracks open the sky
And lets the raw light of dreams come pouring in.
No timid whispers, no fragile lines—
Only the hammer-strike of truth,
The molten gold of language
Forged in the furnace of the soul.
-
Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Online) - Published: May 11th, 2025 02:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Mottakeenur Rehman, Damaso, Pandy
Online)
Comments3
Encapsulated the essence and power of poetry, nicely written
(The molten gold of language forged in the furnace of the soul" what a most wonderful poetic line. For that alone a fave.
You write so incredibly well. This is the best poem I've read in quite a while, along with the other one. Looking forward to more!
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.