On Poetry: Past, Present, Future

Whatever has or shall be seen With eyes or aching heart Is the subject that must be told Their meaning to impart, And, often those penned words Sink like a poisoned dart. On paper the poets ink Like blood, will congeal And relate all the joy, the pain, The feelings we all feel, Sometimes unintentionally Striking our Achilles heel. To some it was so ordinary To one of untrained eye But, to the perceptive poet The extraordinary won’t pass by But shall be immortalised, For written words cannot die. Yes, true emotions are captured For all to read at their leisure In thoughts and images in rhyme, Giving exquisite pleasure And, as each reader is touched The Poem becomes a treasure.