Poet
When he was young the night
was his day. He honored bats
and owls and all creatures that
crawled. The sun was glaring,
prying, shone on the nonsense.
The moon was mysterious, gentle,
as he saw himself, and hidden
in a dark cloud of words. Now,
as then, he lives with no one
but himself. He’s forgotten youth.
Youth has forgotten him as is
only fair. The old straightness
still there searching for the right
word, the right light to shine on
the darkness he so loved, still
visits in the slow, new morning.
Poet
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- Posts: 2683
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Poet
Some nice lines in this fine piece… that nice hook of an opening line for one.
These lines stood out especially:
He’s forgotten youth.
Youth has forgotten him as is
only fair.
…as is only fair…ha!
Also,
The moon was mysterious, gentle,
as he saw himself, and hidden
in a dark cloud of words.
These lines stood out especially:
He’s forgotten youth.
Youth has forgotten him as is
only fair.
…as is only fair…ha!
Also,
The moon was mysterious, gentle,
as he saw himself, and hidden
in a dark cloud of words.