The poem
Which was not read
Its very soul
In words that bled
Locked in time
A distant place
Its sorrow
Surrounds its face.
A certain dignity
Which clothes its frame
Its burning ink
Its tears taste
The sadness
Overwhelming still
Its yellowed page
That lost its will.
Words that clung
To dying hope
An inability
Again to cope
The angels left
Upon the wing
The unread poem
A forgotten thing.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: June 13th, 2026 03:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
A topic I have written of before and so well done here. Short lines intensify the moment and give a sense of urgency to the write. Well done
much appreciated read thanking you
You are most welcome Norman
Well, we've got time to read it 500 times while waiting for this bus! lol.
more like a 1.000 lol, thanks for read
lol.
Norman, this speaks to a fear many writers probably know well...not rejection, but simply never being read at all. The thought of words carrying so much of us and then fading unnoticed is a poignant one. This spoke to me, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
thanking you for kind comments, much appreciated
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