Forsaken Crown
Looking at the miracle
is the sound of something lyrical.
Holding fast and listening still
to the sound of nature’s will.
The frame is full of written sights
that forever speak of blight.
You listen close and are certain still
that your opinion is always right.
I wish that I had a river filled
with all the sanctimonious trill
one swallows like a bitter pill
like nothing that a conscience kills.
So, look to your rumors now
while the oars fill the prow
and find the gold upon the mound
of the once forsaken crown.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment