The Poet









The Poet


So named and justly so by his brethren

his dress of words that live deeply in a mind

that longs release from all his pain to gain

respect not disgust from his shabby dress.


In his lonely hours he penned words so fluently

that flowed so effortlessly from his quill left

still in feathered peace beside his bed.


His ordered verse came smoothly with

a rhyme or two left over from the chilled

cold air left in his chamber silent and poorly

lit from lonely hours spent there.


Upon his page he lingered often with

harsh industry and strife while his veins

pulsated and his eyes would fill with

sudden tears from a heart so bled.


Why he pleaded should my eyes be

so red to touch my heart to open your

own eyes to overflowing joy or dread


I set forth with drowsy thoughts of

summer days I say let my lips.


Wet with emotion and passionate thrill

all who want to listen to me still pass

my thoughts of lofty songs and words

before they flee and fly away from

me lost forever like a moth on wing

fluttering in my candle light.


With pen afire I seduce each word

uttered and summon back at will my

thoughts of yesterdays gone by with

crude lines I feared then as a boy yet

now I glow and mend with rapture and

saving grace impassioned every thought

and felt from my soul.


Translucent like the beauty of our earth

I write the words inspired me in wonder

and delight feeling calmly the might

of my quill I slightly tap its feather under

chin and grin content I sweep the dust

away from my scribe to lay it gently on


it’s side to be read in the morning glow

as I rest my weary head upon my desk

I listen to the tempest sing a lullaby so

sweet I cling and fall to sleep

at last to dream.


© Copyright Vincent Moore 2013. All Rights Reserved.


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