I wrote a spell into the
night as the wax dripped
down my candle light, and
felled upon my writing tablet
leaving a splash of ink so still,
reflecting a man, who held
his feathered quill so tight in
deep thought, and heavy brow
to tell a story about a soul of
long ago and what he
A warrior from the past, who
found a life of solitude and
loneliness of pain, with sorrows,
he chased the elusive rainbow
trying to find the pot of gold
at rainbows end, yet it hid from
view never to show to him the truth
of why he was here, and where he
would end his search for meaning.
This poet writes of life experiences
and sometimes loses himself in despair,
wanting of another reason to keep
his quill dipped in the black shadows of
elusiveness and turmoil.
his anger flares up when he is lost for
words and wants to rip his heart out on
pages that lay before him like a mirror of
white emptiness, and passions lost time.
He cries out with a whimper, and buries his
head in his hands for want of another verse
to materialize before his blurred vision of
brain cells not connected to his pen hand
he wallows, and squirms, lost in despair
praying that his thoughts will give up
a verse of passion love and merriment for
all to take into their souls, and feel filled for
having read this poet’s works of sacrifice
and time spent through the nights,
of burnt wicks, candle wax flame,
and stale night air.
This poet now rests his weary soul knowing
that the ink has dried and black has turned to
verse, and helped another reach deep into their
souls to ease their pain and sufferings to find
the strength to lift their heads, and open eyes to
see and feel the healing power of the suns rays.
On their faces as their feet touch the floor of life
and allows them one more day of great peace
thank fullness and joy in their hearts, uncertain
of the future but caring not as time takes care
of its subjects, and changes for no mans desires.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2011. All Rights Reserved.