Comes the soul of a poet, the whispers
from beyond his grave, the future he
once had above, composing his words,
choosing them in a mercifulness way.
Many harkened to his feverish nights,
spent with his pen, translating his life,
with words that come to him from a
Raven sitting on his bedpost.
He fretted over his life, no one cared, yet
he gave his heart and soul, cried like a lonely
child waiting to be nursed by it’s mother. Yet
the poet knew that life was given to him for a
purpose, to leave a legacy of verse that may
open the minds of others, and understanding.
He often cried alone as he penned, staining
his paper as so many bitter memories unfolded
before him, clouds parted the mist of his life,
he was now exposed, no turning back, he had
to tell his tale of woes, so many.
So like a spring gushing forth with purity,
it sprung through his threads of life, unwinding
the long and bitter battle he fought to survive
the demons in his youth, while memories of his
dead past requires no applause.
He simply asked that the loveliest verse slipped
from the tip of his pen and from the tears in his
eyes, straight to your hearts.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.