ghost again

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some poets pen in their own blood
        their verse rebuffed to red the mud
            its sweet song fails for biased ears
    and only draws those friendly tears

the garlands come so far and few
        then wither ‘fore the twilight dew
            so should a stroke not find fair flesh
    then sure those laurels meet a thresh

this bitter taste of what was then
        now finds my words unseen again
            they dance like bright upon the sea
    yet naught a praise will come to be

their worth and virtue fail to hatch
        responses, short a back to scratch
            thus why do I press hard, this fight?
    cuz damned if I don’t live … to write

I mean, damn … how I love to write.

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Lin Lane

Date: 5/25/2025 3:38:00 AM

You worded it correctly the first time. The boy is back in town. I mean, damn… the Bard is back in town. Your words are never unseen. They're just not appreciated. Praise doesn’t come from those who only see words without discerning what you’re saying. So good to read you here, Greg

Gregory Richard Barden
Date: 5/26/2025 11:30:00 PM

This comment made my day, Lin, and I can’t thank you enough - blessings my dear friend!! :o) <3