The poet’s task’s to salvage beauty,
lay lines from love, not dismal duty.
Washed up with waves of war-torn weeping,
before the sands of time start seeping
he paints a tranquil, true tomorrow,
a wonder-world bled dry of sorrow.
In tears he’s trod the truly tragic
trail, but he can conjure magic!
He’s braved the breaking, beating, bleeding,
for answers, you won’t find him pleading.
This passing star, so soon he’s leaving
his trail of hope to grace the grieving.
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 9th, 2026 03:06
- Comment from author about the poem: feeling hopeful
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Syd
Offline)
Comments4
Great rhyme and meter in this poem to the poet. Well written
Many thanks, SB. Appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome Kevin
Such a celebration of the distinct capacity and privilege of poetry/poet/poem to birth and instil hope despite suffering and the untoward. 🕊️🙏
Thanks for your kind comments and feedback, arqois
Most welcome and good to have you back. 🙏🕊️
I really enjoyed this poem. Very well written 👏
- Syd 🍄
Thank you, Syd.
May that hope come true Kevin.
Andy
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