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.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2026 01:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments1
They always told me that art and particularly poetry is a pauper's job and that no poet ever died rich. Well written Norman
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.