Poetry, as is,
Song of nature,
Unfettered, a realm only He sees...
Such,
The ebb and tide of oceans
Far & wide,
Their melodic symphony,
Driving but life itself...
Whispers of a forest,
Evergreen,
It’s beckoning magic,
The music of rainfall...
Captured forever by mankind,
By the one tool within their feeble reaches...
Words,
Words, to hold,
To describe, to paint...
Hoping, daring,
To preserve, to withstand,
The all destructive hurdle, of time...
Poetry, in it’s purest,
As the innocence abound, within a child’s eyes,
Unpracticed,
The cascades of a virgin waterfall,
Untaught...
Poetry, in it’s essence...
Unlearned,
Not the firm stroke of an artist’s brush,
Yet, the whisper-touch of a mere mortal soul...
The poetry within my heart...
Strokes of an era long past,
That simply do not belong hither...
Nor does, this ephemeral heart...
