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the poet alone
midnight
weeps
in the quiet
where you toss from lack of sleep
from pitch-black skies
into the caverns of
black on black
and blood shot eyes
a poet talks without lips
tongue tied
grey old wrinkled soul
shadow stretched across remembrance
shades of ruin
lie lost
in verse
between his stormy weather
large calloused hands
can stretch across the sea
and grab America
imagine every poet in his poems
like a discrete tattoo of an ice berg
here the winters are grim
it’s hard work conversation
and having a way with words
a certain toughness
to beautify this art
from a whip of indiscretions
the pain is so familiar
forget it exists
obsessed and repressed
to blend
in the absence of speech
left
awaiting love
but only the utters, and moans
are here with the poet alone
Enjoyed your thought!
Enjoyed your thought!
:)
:) you have a way with words my dear
loved this part, like long lasting love which lives after death love this part!
large calloused hands
can stretch across the sea
and grab America
imagine every poet in his poems
Much Love
Ashley
Lovely...tugs at the heart.
Lovely...tugs at the heart.
wow this was really toching
wow this was really toching <3
Speechless. Utter beauty of
Speechless. Utter beauty of expression and nothing else. When you write well....it is so jaw dropping. :-) thx.
......
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "