From the Top of a Wall
Would you confine me to a granite wall,
Where skies are arid dry and desolate?
Would tones of warmth be frozen when I call,
While desert seas insist that I’m to wait?
For heard my ears were horns and trumpets song,
That beckoned siren’s tune directed near,
With notes beholden lovely lyrics long,
Too short my liking still kept tightly dear.
Will my signature scratch out useless words?
I fear misshapen signs might fade from sun,
And sheathed would be a poet’s golden chords,
Strummed for exquisite beauty seen in one;
I stand atop your sprawling precipice,
Awaiting smiles from you that render bliss.
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2016
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