PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Should my clock

neglect to chime

and winds no longer

claim my name,

my trusted pen can

hold no more

and poems spill

across the floor:

to seep away

in final rhyme

and wiped from there

with same disdain,

rejection's cloth

with you remains:

- well, then

my hopes have come

to nought.

And now the pride 

I sought to give,

becomes a moth

about the night.

There to ride

toward the light

where hope

is held

in flickered flame.

But falls to die

uncalled,

upon my name.