Notes About The Poem
Just a little scribble playing around with assonance and alliteration this morning.
I once wrote a poem
I once wrote a poem
without metaphors,
only words to console
a lonely soul lost in
melancholic moods
in thoughts of those
gone to soon without
a note or goodbye.
Pondering how to
probe in prose
who's sole purpose
would be to compose
an ordinary song
to expose innocent
emotions to show
scope and protect,
but not to provoke
or choke forgotten
crimson wounds,
so I wove an ode
without a raincoat,
before moonlight
wore a cloak
covered in clouds
composing a shroud.
Alone in an abode
of brown meadows,
I spoke to the moon
in monsoon soaked
mellow seasons,
but in treason its glow
showed no devotion.
Soothing sounds of
raindrops stroked
soft symphonic tones,
but brought no hope,
so one was prone to
prostrate in sorrows
only consoling smoke
shadows portray
through motions
of stolen ghosts.
Forever wondering
how to become poetic.
Is there a narrow yellow
cobbled road to follow -
or should I forget it?
Once I wrote a poem
with poor metaphors,
so you would not
notice how unspoken
conversations could
explode without
control shown
like cold charcoal
gloom and fog
vapours pouring
showers of torment
to trouble and torture
strongest thorns of
an old stone rose.
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