Upon a breath
Now to listen
An inner thought
Minds cruel prison
A wonder deep
To search my dreams
Hopes and prayers
Are falling leaves.
The moment arched
Its hours prism
Within its light
Towers glisten
Reaching to
An uncaring sky
Bitter, cruel
A watchful eye.
Seldom now
In sunshines glare
The writing hand
That did but share
Its deepest thoughts
Its pining soul
The artist now
Without a home.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Online) - Published: May 26th, 2026 01:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 38
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments5
They always told me that art and particularly poetry is a pauper's job and that no poet ever died rich. Well written Norman
always appreciated, thanking you
You are most welcome Norman
Not in gold and not in silver but treasures of soul that none can pilfer! 🙏🕊️
thanking you, much appreciated
Most welcome, dear Norman 🙏🕊️
Yes, and you saw your reflection in the bus shelter window while waiting for that bus! lol.
yes it looked just like me lol the reflection, no sign of bus though
Excellent write, Norman! I enjoyed reading your work.
very much appreciated, thanking you
The artists home is within your mind Norman and will always be there.
Andy
that is true my friend, thanking you, much appreciated
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