|
| |
Tis not just words that make them poetry
For poems are not but words we thrown together
Tormented thoughts confined to metaphor
Nor picket fence alliteration
Dancing on the edge of passing thought
Beware, the creaking gate that bids you enter
Pay heed to silent stones soft whisperings
Tarry not amid their contradictions
Soft shadows shifting with each passing whim
Perchance a finely woven tapestry
A woven history of living’s lies
Unable to contain the truth or sorrow
Broken threaded dreams on full display
For be they scorching flame or fading ember
Tis not just words that make them poetry
Copyright ©
John Lawless
|
|